


Major Arcana

by hollyand



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Tarot Challenge, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 20,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/pseuds/hollyand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets based on the 22 Major Arcana of the Tarot. Each of them shall be loosely based on either the upright or reversed meaning - or both.</p><p>The 22 Major Arcana of the Tarot are listed <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_Arcana#List_of_the_Major_Arcana">here</a> and the upright and reversed meanings are given on each ficlet. </p><p>Characters and pairings are as follows:<br/>M!Hawke/Anders - Chapters 1 & 21<br/>Keeper Marethari & Feynriel (no pairing) - Chapter 2<br/>F!Hawke/Isabela - Chapter 3<br/>Ashaad/Saemus Dumar - Chapter 4<br/>Bethany Hawke/Sebastian Vael - Chapter 5<br/>Aveline Vallen/Donnic Hendyr - Chapter 6<br/>The Arishok (no pairing) - Chapter 7<br/>Carver Hawke/Merrill - Chapters 8 & 13<br/>Fenris (no pairing) - Chapter 9<br/>Flemeth (no pairing) - Chapter 10<br/>Anders (no pairing) - Chapters 11, 17 and 20<br/>Varric & F!Hawke (no pairing) - Chapter 12<br/>Viscount Dumar & Seneschal Bran - Chapter 14<br/>M!Hawke/Fenris - Chapter 15<br/>Carver Hawke (no pairing) - Chapter 16<br/>Meredith & Orsino (no pairing) - Chapter 18<br/>Fenris/Isabela - Chapter 19<br/>Cassandra Pentaghast & Emile de Launcet (no pairing) - Chapter 22</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Power, skill, concentration, action, resourcefulness;  
>  **Reversed:** Manipulation, poor planning, latent talents.
> 
> Male Hawke/Anders one-shot. Five times Hawke watched Anders heal.
> 
> (Also, hard prompt is hard.)

The first time Garrett Hawke watched Anders healing, he couldn’t stop staring.

The healer stood over the makeshift bed, hands aglow with a pale blue, otherworldly light, floating them over the small, broken body of a boy that Hawke was sure couldn’t be saved. The hopeful faces of the crowd watched the healer as intently as Hawke did, but Anders ignored them all, remaining completely focused on the boy laid out in front of him, palms hovering over every part of the body, his luminous magic bathing the child in soothing light.

It wasn’t just that Hawke had never met another mage before (not counting family, of course). It was the fact that Anders was clearly a skilled and powerful mage, and Hawke had never met such an able healer before. Malcolm was the only person with healing magic Hawke had ever known, and he had imparted all he knew of that school to his two mage children – which amounted to basic healing and rejuvenation spells, nothing more.

Anders frowned in concentration, and his hands glowed brighter; so bright Hawke had to narrow his own eyes against the white-hot intensity of the healer’s hands. Bone knitted together, blood seeped back into the skin, and where Hawke had thought the boy lost, he now began to wonder if he’d grossly underestimated the mage’s healing talents.

Finally, there was a cough and a splutter, and against all the odds, the boy opened his eyes and sat up, as if he’d just woken from a long sleep.

It was at that point Hawke realised Anders was someone he wanted.

\---

The second time Hawke saw Anders healing was in the Deep Roads.

The expedition was the only thing that would keep the templars off his back – off both their backs, Hawke had persuaded him, despite Anders’s protestations of his hatred of the Deep Roads and his phobia of being underground. But Anders came, because Hawke asked him, and Hawke couldn’t tell Anders how much he appreciated it.

Going by what they faced down there – darkspawn, profane, rock wraiths, Bartrand’s betrayal for a lyrium idol – Hawke wondered, more than once, whether the riches they eventually found were really worth anything they went through. Even once they found the promised treasure, there was no guarantee that they’d even make it back to Kirkwall alive, and they were fast running out of rations.

And then Carver contracted the Taint on the way back to the surface, and Hawke was faced with the prospect of losing his last remaining sibling; but it was Anders who took action when Hawke was in distress, it was Anders who proved resourceful enough to find the Grey Wardens just so that Carver stood some chance of being saved. It was Anders who decided to risk the wrath of the Wardens he’d deserted some months before, risking the chance they might even kill him as a traitor on sight, just for a slim hope that Hawke’s little brother would not die from the Taint.

It was Anders who used his spirit healing on Carver (who, for once, didn’t grumble) at intervals to keep him going, however temporarily, until the Wardens could be found.

It was at that point, when Carver was carried away by Stroud, that Hawke realised Anders was someone he needed.

\---

The third time Hawke watched Anders heal was when Hawke became the Champion of Kirkwall.

Bruised, bloody, but unbowed, Hawke basked in the glory of defeating the Arishok in single combat and driving the Qunari from the city once and for all. Anders watched with relief and pride as his lover – his handsome, talented, magic-wielding lover – was declared Champion of Kirkwall by Knight Commander Meredith. In spite of her obvious distaste, in spite of her obvious frustration that she could do nothing about the apostate standing before her, she hailed him in front of the admiring nobles – in front of the whole populace – as the saviour of the city, to unanimous cheers.

Hawke had always been a powerful mage, and now he was the most powerful man in Kirkwall. Anders tended to his wounds that night, healing them in the bed they shared.

‘I never thought I’d see the day an apostate would be the most important man in Kirkwall, love,’ Anders murmured as Hawke’s bruises vanished under his touch.

‘I couldn’t have done it without you, Anders,’ Hawke replied.

It was at that point Hawke knew Anders was someone he would always love, no matter what.

\---

The fourth time Hawke saw Anders heal, Anders lied to him.

There was no potion, Anders had said, despite making his lover root through the sewers and Bone Pit caves for some combination of human and dragon effluence to supposedly concoct a potion that would help separate him and Justice.

After using his magic to set a broken leg, Anders had shooed the patient out of his clinic just to tell Hawke he’d been manipulated into helping Anders into something that his lover couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – tell him about. Something that would apparently help the cause of mages, conveniently forgetting that he, Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was also a mage.

Something big. Something bad. Something possibly also very shitty.

Hawke choked back his hysterical desire to laugh as the tears sprung to his eyes. It was bad enough that he hardly saw his lover anymore; worse still that Anders wouldn’t tell him what was going on. Worse still that after everything they shared, Anders didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was going on.

It was at that point Hawke realised no one could break his heart like Anders did.

\---

The fifth time Hawke watched Anders heal, everything had gone to hell.

The chantry had been blown sky high in a cloud of red light and ash, Grand Cleric Elthina was dead, Meredith ordered the immediate execution of all mages and called on the Champion’s support, which he refused. In the midst of it all stood Anders, taking full and unashamed responsibility for the chaos he’d unleashed. Anders, blond and handsome and fierce and not even trying to keep control of Justice anymore, and Hawke had been so angry and betrayed it hurt to even look at him.

It wasn’t as if Hawke thought Anders wasn’t justified in what he’d done; Hawke had already heard from Karras that Meredith had already sent for the Rite of Annulment to be used on the Circle. The mages were condemned no matter what happened. No, Hawke only wished that Anders had trusted him, rather than somehow thinking he was protecting his lover by acting alone.

Hawke would not kill him, no matter what Fenris said. They had mages to save.

The battle raged through the entire city and went on for days; Carver rejoined his brother from the Grey Wardens, and Hawke found, through his own emotional turmoil, that he was glad to have his brother’s blade at his side again. For once, Carver’s presence anchored him, even while he fought with and yelled at Anders through some difficult conversations.

Until Orsino turned on them, then Knight Commander Meredith turned on everyone, and when Knight Captain Cullen let them leave in peace, Hawke watched on the deck of Isabela’s ship as Anders went around healing everyone’s battle injuries.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anders said for the twentieth time as he approached Hawke.

Hawke sighed. ‘I know,’ he said, reaching out to cup Anders’s cheek, his hand glowing with his own healing magic.

It was at that point Anders realised Hawke had forgiven him.


	2. II. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Intuition, higher powers, mystery, subconscious mind;  
>  **Reversed:** Hidden agendas, need to listen to inner voice.
> 
> Keeper Marethari talks to Feynriel about his powers shortly before 'Night Terrors'.

‘Keeper. I – I can’t do this.’

‘Feynriel,’ Keeper Marethari’s voice was soothing, seemingly untroubled, ‘what you have is an exceptionally rare gift. So rare, it was supposed to be extinct for over two hundred years. It won’t be easy to master.’

Feynriel covered his face with his hands. ‘The nightmares. They won’t stop! I – I want to, but I can’t!’

Marethari folded her hands in her lap, dispassionately observing the fair-haired boy before her. ‘The Tome of the Slumbering Elders was a journal written by the last dreamer of our clan. Has it not helped you, child?’

Feynriel sighed, and removed his hands from his face. ‘Not – not really.’ He fidgeted and looked down. ‘I’ve been trying. I – I know it can be powerful if I just learned to control it. The Tome talked about a lot about “uthenera”. Maybe all the elves were dreamers – somniari – once.’ He lifted his eyes to meet Marethari’s; she kept her face carefully expressionless. ‘Can the elves really not help me?’

Marethari didn’t answer straight away. ‘Do you remember any of your dreams upon waking, Feynriel?’

‘Sometimes. I know the demons are plaguing me, but it’s getting harder to tell them apart.’

‘You have done well to resist them so far, child. Due to your ability to shape the Fade and affect the dreams of others, somniari attract demons far more strongly than other mages do. Your subconscious mind must be stronger than you thought.’

Feynriel shook his head. ‘No. It’s getting harder to tell with each passing dream. It did get easier when I first came here, but then – the demons changed. I can no longer tell what their agendas or disguises are. I have to rely on intuition, or even plain luck, to find them out and banish them.’ He shuddered. ‘It frightens me. I feel like I can no longer trust my sleeping mind.’

‘You cannot go without sleep, Feynriel.’

‘I know. I know I can’t. But – I’m afraid…’

‘Would it help you if I sent for Arianni in the alienage? She can stay with us tonight. It might help if you had someone to put your mind at rest before you sleep.’

‘My mother?’ Feynriel tilted his head to one side, considering. ‘I suppose it could help.’

Marethari nodded, and stood up. ‘I will find Pol and ask him to fetch Arianni for you. He knows his way around the city.’

‘Thank you, Keeper,’ Feynriel smiled, and Marethari’s heart ached. She sincerely hoped Arianni’s presence would help the boy, but deep down she sorely doubted it would. Feynriel’s sleep of late had been more disturbed, more violent, and it was getting harder to wake him with each passing day.

It was only a matter of time before he was lost to one of his nightmares, and she didn’t want to think of what they might have to do to him when that happened.


	3. III. The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Fertility, femininity, beauty, nature, abundance;  
>  **Reversed:** Creative block, dependence on others.
> 
> Female Hawke/Isabela one-shot, set during ‘Mark of the Assassin’. 
> 
> Curiously, Isabela seems to get quite jealous of Tallis if in a romance with female Hawke – she doesn’t when in a romance with a male Hawke…
> 
> (Also, hard prompts are hard. Why did I decide to do this challenge again?)

‘…It’s just that – you’re the Champion of Kirkwall. Big. Important. Just wondering... if there’s a husband behind the throne.’

Marian Hawke raised an eyebrow in interest. Isabela had to suppress her desire to snort at Tallis’s innocent-but-not-so-innocent inquiry. ‘Yes,’ Isabela answered, before Hawke could. ‘That’s a _very_ good question, isn’t it?’

Hawke coughed awkwardly. ‘Let’s keep moving.’

For all her breezy casualness about relationships, there was something about Hawke and Tallis flirting with each other that rubbed Isabela up the wrong way. Not that she minded Hawke doing it – Hawke flirted with everyone, like Isabela did. One of the reasons Isabela loved – sorry, _liked_ ; where did that word come from? – her was because she recognised in the other woman a kindred spirit: fun, freedom, and bad-ass independence.

(That, and the fact that Isabela was her queen in the bedroom. Champion of Kirkwall or not.)

What she didn’t like was the way Tallis was trying to muscle in on Hawke without so much as a thought for Isabela standing right beside her. The very least the red-headed elf could do was ask Isabela to join in. Tallis was cute enough; Isabela wouldn’t say no.

Plus, Isabela really wasn’t used to being ignored.

Hmmm. She’d simply have to show that smart-mouthed redhead who was boss.

\---

‘Just how long has this wyvern hunt been going on?’ Hawke asked as they jogged through the grassy clearing. The sun streamed through the tall, verdant trees, dappling the lush vegetation on the ground with occasional patches of light among the long shadows, and Isabela welcomed the fresh, light breeze on her face. It wasn’t the same as being out on the ocean, but it would do. The scent of pine trees on the air was soothing, at least.

‘It’s an annual tradition the Montforts began to keep the population down,’ Tallis answered. ‘They breed quickly.’

‘And the Orlesian nobility is only too happy to help out?’

Tallis shrugged. ‘It’s a game. The Montforts are close to the Empress, so anything that pleases them is worth pursuing. Plus you should really try the aquae lucidius. You'll be seeing purple dragons in the sky for days.’

‘Purple dragons?’ Merrill piped up, and Isabela looked at her. Being out of the city and surrounded by nature seemed to bring the little elf back to her usual perky self. ‘Like Asha’bellanar?’

‘No, Kitten,’ Isabela said, patiently. ‘Not those sorts of purple dragons. These ones aren’t real.’

‘Oh. Why would anyone do it then?’

‘Fun. A new experience.’

Merrill looked confused. ‘I haven’t heard of anything like that among the Dalish.’

Isabela was about to reply, when out of the corner of her eye she saw Tallis saunter up to Hawke with an expression of worship on her face. Behind her, however, was a shadow of a dragonling up ahead.

How conveniently timed.

‘Oh good! I was getting a bit bored!’ Isabela yelled, unsheathing her daggers with a flourish and sprinting over to the roaring dragon.

‘I’m pretty sure this one is real!’ cried Merrill as she ran alongside her, unslinging her staff.

\---

‘Come on in, Hawke! The water’s lovely.’

Hawke laughed. ‘It’s fine, Isabela. Merrill and Tallis –’

‘Tallis can keep a look-out,’ Isabela interrupted, standing thigh-deep in the sun-warmed lake. ‘She didn’t catch too much of the dragonling blood on her. She doesn’t have so much of it to wash off. The rest of us could do with a splash.’

‘Oooh, yes,’ Merrill chirped, already removing her olive scarf and leather greaves. ‘That’s a wonderful idea, Isabela! You always have the best ideas.’

Isabela laughed. ‘Don’t I just,’ she said airily, as Merrill stripped off the last of her clothing and jumped into the water with a splosh. Isabela stretched out her arms and arched her back, making sure Hawke was watching her large, round breasts almost bursting to get out of her corseted tunic. Tallis narrowed her eyes at her; then looked back to Hawke, uncertainly.

‘Hawke. We need to find that wyvern, and we need to find some bait. We… really don’t have time for this.’

Hawke stood on the grassy banks of the lake; her expression was impassive as she watched Isabela, but Isabela could see the bob of her Adam’s apple as she gulped. A slow smirk crept across Isabela’s face, and she carefully unthreaded the laces of her corset, lowering her gaze seductively, keeping her amber eyes firmly on Hawke’s.

Finally, Hawke took a step towards the lake. ‘Tallis, you keep watch,’ she said, voice firm, removing her gauntlets.

Isabela flung her tunic in Tallis’s direction, revelling in the sunshine on her naked bronzed flesh, laughing as Hawke stripped bare and jumped in beside her. Merrill was happily splashing a little further away, the snow-capped grey mountains making a perfect backdrop to her enjoyment of the wide lake.

Hawke herself was a fine specimen of feminity, even if she preferred not to display any of it in public, and Isabela never tired of seeing her lover out of her armour. She backed away, going deeper into the lake, and beckoned Hawke towards her, letting the Champion drink in her own ample curves – Isabela had always taken pride in her body, and appreciated that Hawke delighted in it as much as she did – and Hawke swam over to embrace her, creamy pale skin against brown, soft breast against soft breast, wet and warm below the vast blue sky.

‘We won’t be a minute!’ Isabela cheerfully called over Hawke’s shoulder to Tallis, who stood forlornly on the side of the lake.

Hawke chuckled. ‘The things you do to get me naked, Isabela,’ she said, cradling Isabela’s head in her hands. ‘My own saucy pirate queen.’

Making sure Tallis was watching, Isabela slid her arms around her lover through the water, and winked. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t appreciate the chance to get that dragonling blood off your skin,’ she said smoothly. ‘If you want to swim somewhere more… private, I can even help you, if you like.’


	4. IV. The Emperor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright** : Authority, father-figure, structure, solid foundation;  
>  **Reversed** : Domination, excessive control, rigidity, inflexibility.
> 
> Viscount Dumar has an argument with his son Saemus.

Sighing, Viscount Dumar slumped heavily into his chair, mopping his brow.

‘Saemus,’ he said to his son, ‘you must understand. You cannot carry on as you do, traipsing about the Wounded Coast, spending time at the Qunari Compound. The former makes you a target for those who would seek to undermine me; the latter gives them a reason to do so.’

‘No, Father,’ Saemus’s voice was firm. ‘People need to see. The Qunari are not beasts to be feared, nor are they the enemy. Ashaad taught me –’

‘I don’t want to know what they taught you,’ Dumar snapped, finally losing patience. ‘You seem to forget you are not some idle nobleman’s boy; you are the Viscount’s son. I have enough trouble to contend with in this city without piling suspicions of Qunari influence in my own family on top. You are embarrassing this office.’

Saemus snorted. ‘No more than this office already embarrasses itself.’

‘Don’t you talk back at me, boy,’ the viscount thundered, glaring at him; Saemus stared back, resolute. ‘I’ll see to it that Bran has you confined to the Keep for a week.’

‘But Father, the Arishok is not your enemy,’ Saemus pressed, determined to make his father see. ‘The Qunari –’

‘– are not of Kirkwall, and therefore I am under no obligation to entertain them,’ his father interrupted. ‘I have enough demands and desires I have to try to appease, not least those of the Templar Order and the Chantry. I do not wish to share Perrin Threnhold’s fate.’

‘You will share his fate anyway if you refuse to acknowledge what is really going on in the city you claim to rule,’ Saemus retorted.

‘Enough!’ Dumar seethed. ‘Enough of your insolence! I don’t want to hear any more on this subject, and I will not have you bringing up the Qunari again, do you hear me?’

‘But Father –’

‘And I will not hear of you running around with your – your Qunari friend again, do you hear me?’

‘His name is Ashaad, Father.’

‘I don’t care,’ Viscount Dumar spat. ‘What is he to me that I should care for what he is called?’

‘He is someone who made me see that things cannot stay as they are,’ Saemus cried passionately, taking a step towards his father, who remained seated behind the intricately-carved desk. ‘He has a certainty and will that I admire; and he is wise, strong, brave and – and beautiful,’ Saemus blurted out, blushing, ‘and I –’

Now he had his father’s attention; the viscount stood up. ‘What – what did you say?’

Saemus bowed his head. ‘I love him, Father. We’re together.’

‘You –’ Dumar stepped towards him, raising his hand as if to strike him; Saemus did not flinch, readying himself for the blow. To his surprise, the viscount lowered his hand, seeming to think better of it. His eyes, however, still blazed.

‘Get out.’

‘But Father –’

‘Get out!’ Dumar roared. ‘Now!’

Saemus did as he was told; but as he was about to leave, he turned in the open doorway, and met his father eye to eye.

‘If I want to go with Ashaad to the Qunari,’ he said coldly, ‘then neither you, nor anyone in your office, will stop me.’

He turned on his heel, and marched out.


	5. V. The Hierophant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Religion, group identification, conformity, tradition, beliefs;  
>  **Reversed:** Restriction, challenging the status quo.
> 
> Sebastian struggles between his duty and his growing feelings for Bethany.

" _O Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights; steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked…_ " 

Temptation, yes. Sebastian knew it well, even with his eyes closed and his hands joined in prayer.

Though if he were honest, ‘wicked’ was not a word one could ever use to describe the beautiful Bethany Hawke.

" _…Make me to rest in the warmest places…_ " 

But, no. He could not think of her now. He’d taken vows; vows that were strong enough not to be broken by the sight of a pretty face or a pleasing figure.

He hoped his recitation of the twelfth chapter of Transfigurations, so soothing on every other occasion, would be enough to put his troubled heart at rest.

" _O Creator, see me kneel; for I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed, sing only the words You place in my throat…_ " 

Tonight, here in the Chantry, while he knelt before the golden statue of Andraste, the Maker would hear his plea.

The Maker would guide him back to the path he was always meant to tread.

All Sebastian had to do was have faith. The Maker moved in mysterious ways, unknowable, infallible.

" _My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow…_ " 

Everything the Maker allowed, everything the Maker did, happened for a reason.

Even the slaughter of his entire family, the ruling family of Starkhaven, which had been as devastating as it was thorough.

" _Lift me from a world of pain; judge me worthy of Your endless pride…_ " 

It’s not as if Sebastian never believed. He was ordained as a brother of a Chantry – unwillingly at first, perhaps, given the Vaels had forced him into a vow of celibacy merely to protect his brothers’ children from any rival heirs he might produce – but Grand Cleric Elthina had told him, on that fateful night they had first met, that people served the Maker in many ways. ‘You don’t have to take vows to do his work’, she had said to him, in that wise, gentle voice of hers, but accepted him into her flock anyway.

But now… Now his family were dead. He was the sole surviving heir to the throne. He was Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven once again.

And princes weren’t meant for chastity.

" _My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace…_ " 

And what if that was what the Maker intended? If there was more than one way to serve the Maker, as Elthina said, what if the Maker intended for Sebastian to serve Him by ruling Starkhaven in His name?

What if the Maker had judged that the time was ripe for him to do so, to carry His light while he led from the throne? For these were difficult times in the Free Marches.

Which would mean he would have to take a queen. He would have to renounce his vows of chastity, and beget the heirs that neither his parents nor his brothers wanted.

And Bethany – Bethany, with her sunny outlook; kind, radiant, graceful, honest and devout Andrastrian – would be perfect.

‘You were made as you are. I have yet to see evidence of the Maker’s fallibility. I certainly don’t see any in you,’ he had told her, and she had blushed so delightfully, the bloom in her cheeks a perfect contrast to her Circle mage robes. And oh, how he’d wanted her.

If only she wasn’t a mage.

" _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed;  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval…_ " 

And even his being on the throne might not be enough to convince the populace that choosing a Circle mage for his queen would be the right thing to do.

He could take her as a mistress, of course; but no, Bethany was too good for that. She was too good for _him_ , if he were honest. If it wasn’t for the fact that a shadow of his former playboy self still lived in him, he wouldn’t even know how to talk to her – his light flirtations, so well practised on so many others, belied the depth of his true feelings.

" _O Maker, hear my cry. Seat me by Your side in death…_ " 

And even if he renounced his claim to the throne, like Elthina advised, and remained within the Chantry for the rest of his days, what then? She was still a mage of the Circle, which was where she was supposed to be.

She was still out of his reach. The Maker had still sent her – perfect, beautiful her – to tempt him. It wasn’t her fault she tempted him – it wasn’t her fault she was as lovely as she was, she couldn’t help it as much as he couldn’t help being enticed by her – but he was still a Brother, and he still had to resist that temptation; to steel himself against her.

No matter how hard she made it for him.

" _Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favour…_ " 

He didn’t know what to do. Both about the throne, and about Bethany.

He could only pray to the Maker to guide him. To tell him what was the right thing to do. To calm the unsettled mind and the conflicted soul that Transfigurations, for the first time in his life, had failed to put at ease.

" _For You are the fire at the heart of the world;  
And comfort is only Yours to give_."


	6. VI. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Love, union, relationships, values alignment, choices;  
>  **Reversed:** Disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values.
> 
> Aveline and Donnic get married.

Aveline never gets nervous. Even as she runs the hairbrush through her long, flame-coloured hair, her hands remain firm and steady. Merrill and Bethany are running around the room, chirping and chatting, fussing excitedly over her simple cream-coloured taffeta dress and matching tulle veil.

But Aveline is nervous today.

It is almost five years to the day that Wesley died, and by her own hand; by the same hand that bore the wedding ring that symbolised the promises she had made to him.

Aveline tries to calm herself. Donnic is a good man, and he shares many of the same values that she treasures; but Aveline cannot stop her mind wandering back to her first marriage and the regrets she can’t help feeling, no matter how unjustified she knows those are. She says nothing, though, smiling gracefully as Merrill plaits two tendrils of her hair into small braids and wraps the rest of it into an elegant chignon; hoping that her conflicted feelings about her past and present marriages doesn’t show.

Donnic can never replace Wesley, no one can; and she knows that, and she knows deep down that Wesley would never begrudge her a second chance at happiness, a second chance at love, a second chance to make things right – but that doesn’t stop the tangle of emotions as Bethany slips the pale green sash around her shoulders, the slip of raw silk smooth on her skin, unfussy and uncomplicated, in a way her feelings are not.

Bethany tells Aveline she looks beautiful; from her reflection in the mirror she realises that she does, however she feels on the inside.

Aveline picks up her bouquet, allowing herself a small wry chuckle when she observes the ribbon-bound floral arrangement that Merrill has created for her. _Marigolds_. Obviously, she is never going to live that one down.

Another deep breath, for it is time. Merrill and Bethany straighten the train of her dress and her sash as she descends the stairs, ready to make her way out into the backyard, where everyone is waiting.

Hawke has fitted the Estate with drapes of green silk and chiffon in her honour, and affixed copper carvings to the walls, and Aveline is touched to see the effort her friend has made to surround her with a few of her favourite things. She emerges into the yard, where the guests are waiting, but for a moment she doesn’t see them, doesn’t hear their sighs as they take her in, the sunlight catching her ginger hair and setting it alight under her veil.

Aveline asked Hawke to stand beside her as the couple’s best man. There is no ‘giving her away,’ because Aveline is her own woman and needs no man to give her away. The only person who might possibly be an exception to that rule is her father, and he cannot be here.

But she wants Hawke by her side anyway. Because Hawke has been by her side since… since Wesley, and it seems only fitting and proper that Hawke is the one to see her from her old life into her new one.

Aveline steels herself like the warrior she is, applies a smile to her lips, and walks down the aisle towards the ivy-covered lattice arch, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach and the ghosts of her memories.

Yet when her eyes meet Donnic’s, her heart lifts when she sees him smile at her. There is no question in her mind, or in his, that she is doing the right thing.

When Grand Cleric Elthina pronounces them man and wife, when she shares her first kiss as a married couple with Donnic, when Hawke leads the applause, tears of pride and joy in his eyes, Aveline is no longer nervous, no longer unsure.

She is able to enjoy the wedding breakfast Hawke and his servants have laid on – rare steak, caramelised onions and baby corn, topped off with light red wine – for what it is, without worrying what she is without.

And when she retreats later that evening, taking a private moment for herself from the party, she offers a secret thanks to Wesley for guiding her once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so... this ficlet ended up far more melancholy and reflective than it was originally supposed to be. Sorry about that!
> 
> In case you're wondering about why I've written Aveline's favourite colour to be green and favourite food to be what they eat for the wedding breakfast (especially as there is no evidence in-game to suggest what these are), I've taken both of them from Lukas Kristjanson's posts on the Bioware forums about this subject - he's her writer, and he talks about them here: http://social.bioware.com/forum/1/topic/141/index/4474634/2&lf=8


	7. VII. The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Control, will power, victory, assertion, determination;  
>  **Reversed:** Lack of control and direction, aggression.
> 
> The Arishok, doing battle with Isabela’s ship, before the storm that shipwrecked them both.

‘ _Vinek kathas_! Fire!’

Forty cannons unloaded at once into the pirate ship dancing tantalisingly on the waves before them. Around a third of the shots scored a direct hit, and the Arishok nodded his approval. Parts of the enemy vessel splintered and broke off, but the ship sailed doggedly on.

‘ _Katara, bas_ ,’ spat the Arishok. ‘ _Nehraa Koslun_.’

The Qunari dreadnought, riding into battle like a chariot of the ocean, would be victorious today; the Arishok was determined of that. Time to show these _basra_ what happened to those who insulted the Qun in this way.

From around him, the Arishok could hear the rest of his fleet following his lead and firing on the ship ahead, which zigzagged nimbly through the hail of cannonballs raining on it, taking minimal damage from the onslaught.

The ship was faster, smaller, and more intent in eluding than attacking the Qunari. A few shots had initially been fired in retaliation when the Arishok’s dreadnought had first engaged them, but now the smaller ship seemed more concerned with simply getting away from the fleet.

Cowards. The Qunari would show them. The Arishok would assert his dominance and control over these _vashedan_ thieves, just as the Qun demanded of him and the five hundred men under his command.

‘Faster,’ the Arishok urged the captain at the helm. ‘They cannot be allowed to escape with the Tome.’

The captain nodded, and the dreadnought lurched forward with a burst of speed. They were closing in, the Arishok noted with grim satisfaction.

There was no doubt the pirate ship’s captain was a skilled one, but the will of the Qunari would not be defeated so easily. The Arishok had never lost a battle before; this, of course, was why he was the Arishok.

The Qunari beneath him on the deck had reloaded their cannons; it was time to strike again and board.

Just one more attack, and it would be all over for their enemy.

‘ _Teth a!_ ’ the Arishok bellowed. ‘ _Nehraa Koslun! Ataash Qunari!_ We shall be victorious today!’

He surveyed the grey, red-blood-streaked bodies of the fierce, horned fighters who roared their obedience back at him; the thrill of the chase and his command of the battle spurred on their enthusiasm, and the Arishok felt confident that they could not lose, even with the dark clouds descending upon them, obscuring their vision of the shore.

‘ _Vinek kathas!_ Fire!’

Every cannon on the battleship fired with a deafening series of booms; the fleet followed suit. The Arishok readied his weapons, preparing to board, preparing to fight.

‘ _Anaam esaam Qun!_ ’

But before he could make the leap to board, the ship careened sharply away; its hull smoking, battered but not broken, as if propelled by a spirited will to survive that the Arishok had not counted on. With one huge heave forward on the choppy waves, the ship reared forward, putting on a burst of speed that clearly confused every Qunari on board. A din of disappointment and rage rose from the soldiers on the ship; they had been relishing the battle as much as the Arishok had, and now victory had slipped away from them at the last, like a lover in the middle of the night.

The pirate ship ploughed through the increasingly rough waves, the dreadnought in hot pursuit, until the Arishok realised it was heading into a storm.

‘Foolish,’ the captain observed. ‘They will be shipwrecked for sure.’

‘And yet we cannot let them get away without the Tome,’ mused the Arishok.

‘If we follow, we put our own fleet in grave danger,’ the captain observed.

‘Either their captain is a very foolish one, or a recklessly brave one,’ the Arishok agreed. ‘But the Qun demands that I recover the Tome of Koslun.’

The captain paused, awaiting his command. Out of the corner of his eye, the Arishok could see hundreds of grey-and-red bodies, quietly waiting to see what the Arishok would say next.

Following the _basra_ ship into the storm – and a violent storm at that, judging by how the winds and lightning were buffeting the ship sailing away in front of them – would potentially wipe out most, if not all, of the Qunari fleet, not to mention the Arishok himself.

But not fulfilling a demand of the Qun was simply not done. He would not be worthy to be Arishok otherwise, and retreating now would condemn him and five hundred soldiers – good, obedient, Qunari soldiers – to their deaths, if they dared return to Par Vollen without the stolen Tome.

They had no choice.

‘ _Meravas_ ,’ he said to his captain, his voice calm, certain, determined. ‘So shall it be.’

He raised his axe in the air, trying to rouse the spirits of his _antaam_ once more. ‘ _Nehraa kadan!_ ’ he roared. ‘ _Ataash varin kata!_ Forward into the storm!’


	8. VIII. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Strength, courage, patience, control, compassion;  
>  **Reversed:** Weakness, self-doubt, lack of self-discipline.
> 
> Carver and Merrill, around a campfire.
> 
> (Also, hard prompt is hard once again.)

‘So… I hear you’ve got a tattoo as well, Carver?’

Carver looked up; Merrill was staring curiously at him, large green eyes dancing in the orange light of the crackling campfire, face illuminated by the flames against the black backdrop of the night. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I got one of a Mabari. For strength. Several of us got them at Ostagar. It’s not like yours, obviously.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Merrill agreed. ‘Where is it?’

He chuckled nervously. ‘Merrill. I can’t possibly tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, it’s, erm,’ he rubbed his hand across his brow, ‘it’s in a – private place. Well, sort of.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So I can’t see it then?’

‘No, you can’t,’ Carver started to reply, then blushed as he realised what he said. ‘I mean, well, you _can_ , but right now you can’t, because – erm – well, it’s too dark.’

‘Oh,’ she said wisely, and Carver reached up to rub the back of his neck, which he was sure was as red as the rest of him. ‘So… will I be able to see it in daylight then?’

‘What? No! I mean, no, because – it – well, I –’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’d have to undress.’

Now it was Merrill’s turn to blush, and she looked away, embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quickly, and Carver wasn’t sure what she was apologising for. ‘I always say the stupidest things.’

Carver reached over to comfort her, then thought better of it, letting his hand drop to the ground before he could place it on her shoulder. He turned back to the fire, and frowned at the flames.

They sat in silence for a while, the silence awkward and uncomfortable between them in the dark. Behind them, Hawke snored a little, and a bedroll rustled as someone turned over in their sleep.

Merrill stood up. ‘Maybe I should go back to bed,’ she said, voice shaking, and Carver noticed she was shivering violently.

‘Are you cold?’

She shuddered. ‘A bit. I thought maybe if I wrapped up in the bedroll, that might help.’

‘Sit by me,’ he said gently, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate for her to stay. ‘I’ll – I can block out the breeze, maybe that’ll help?’

Merrill hesitated for a moment; to his relief, she then settled back down on the ground, next to him. He put his arm out before he could stop himself, and wrapped it round her thin, quivering body, drawing her into him. She froze for a moment, and he wondered if he’d done the wrong thing; when she sighed contentedly and relaxed against him, he breathed his own sigh of relief.

‘Better?’ he asked, keeping his voice light.

She nodded.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her shivers dying down.

‘No problem,’ he murmured into her hair.

More silence fell between them. Merrill closed her eyes against the firelight, while Carver sat there, propping her up, unable to tear his eyes away from her or move his arm from its one-armed embrace.

‘You’re a good person, Carver,’ Merrill eventually murmured.

Carver was touched, but taken aback. ‘Um. OK…?’

‘I mean it,’ she said softly. ‘You’re strong. And brave. And very good at swording. And you keep out the cold very well.’

Carver chuckled. ‘Thanks, Merrill.’

She turned her face up to smile at him, and his heart flopped. ‘You’re good enough, _lethallin_. I just wish sometimes you could see that.’

Sometimes, Carver thought, he wished he could keep Merrill by his side everywhere he went, because when she smiled at him, he was almost able to forget all his doubts about himself. He was almost able to forget whatever it was inside him that compelled him to drink and start fist-fights and visit the Blooming Rose – much to the elder Hawke’s amusement and Aveline’s big-sisterly disapproval. ‘Stiffen up, Carver, and focus,’ Aveline often chided him, and while ostensibly she would be talking about his swordsmanship skills, and the patience and self-discipline he needed to develop to improve them, he knew she also meant all the other stuff as well.

But when Merrill smiled at him like she was doing now, face glowing in the soft firelight, lips close enough to kiss, all the strength and courage Carver prided himself on as a warrior sapped away; yet he didn’t want to move from his spot, or move his arm from around her body, or do anything that might change what she’d said about him.

But he wasn’t able find the words to tell Merrill any of this. So he settled on simply repeating ‘Thanks, Merrill,’ once again, hoping she would somehow understand everything he wanted to say, but couldn’t.


	9. IX. The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Soul-searching, introspection, being alone, inner guidance;  
>  **Reversed:** Isolation, loneliness, withdrawal.
> 
> Fenris, lyrium ghost, alone.

‘Three years, and you’re practically a ghost,’ Varric had said, when trying to persuade Fenris to ‘make some friends in the city.’ Varric had said that it wouldn’t kill him to do so, but what did Varric know?

Danarius was still alive. And Danarius would come after him.

Fenris frowned at the bottle of wine in front of him, as if trying to parse what the label said, as if it offered some secrets that he was failing to decipher. Briefly, he considered hurling it at the wall, just as he’d done so many years ago in front of Hawke.

He set the dark bottle on the armchair rest beside him, and settled his elbows onto his knees, leaning forward to stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dancing around the plume logs at will; somehow they seemed to reflect his introspective musings.

Three years, and no sign of Danarius’s minions; or even Danarius himself. That… was indeed unusual. Danarius had a habit of finding him, his ‘little wolf’, and with no sign the magister had come after him at all made Fenris uneasy.

Yes, Fenris had survived and had been free of Danarius’s clutches for several years now – a lyrium ghost, roaming the Free Marches; a lone wolf, hunted but free. That had to count for something.

But Fenris knew Danarius well enough to know he had not simply given up; but he was unsure what tactic, what game, the magister was playing now. And that made it much harder to plan his own next move in the battle for his continued survival.

Varric had tried to give him advice on so many occasions. Trying to give him tips on how to lie low and hide. Trying to tell him to make friends in this city, even though he still accompanied Hawke on the odd occasion, but only when Hawke needed his blade at his back. The jobs paid enough to survive; his work for Hawke was business, nothing more.

Varric was wrong. Isolation was Fenris’s friend: he didn’t fear being alone, he feared letting his guard down. He feared to trust; the stakes for betrayal were too high. He feared losing his memories again; losing himself.

He had every reason to withdraw himself from the hustles and bustles of Kirkwall. It was safer that way.

Still brooding on these thoughts, Fenris picked up the bottle of wine again, and drank.


	10. X. Wheel Of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Good luck, karma, life cycles, destiny, a turning point;  
>  **Reversed:** Bad luck, negative external forces, out of control.
> 
> Flemeth watches Hawke from on high during the DA2 prologue. Is it Fate, or Chance...?
> 
> (This was probably the hardest prompt of the lot.)

_Is it Fate, or Chance? I never can decide._

High up on the cliff-edge on which she was perched, Flemeth casually surveyed the people below, battling rows upon rows of darkspawn hurlocks among the red, ruined landscape. Directly in front of her vantage point, so far below her they seemed like ants among the vast, rocky emptiness, were a man and a woman, the man in standard templar armour, and the woman with him – orange-haired and in Fereldan army colours – a warrior of such fierceness and determination Flemeth wasn’t surprised she’d survived the Ostagar massacre.

Flemeth turned her attention to the group of people on her far right, even smaller still – a group of two men and two women, all bearing some resemblance. The older of the two men was leading them, while the young woman cast fire around them, protecting the old woman behind her. A family, then – a mother and three of her children. The younger man and young woman looked to be about the same age, and with the young woman raining hell on the darkspawn behind them it was obvious she was definitely a mage.

_Well. This should make it interesting when the family catches up with the templar and his companion._

Flemeth chuckled drily to herself. Frankly that was the least of their worries, considering what fortune had in store for them.

Flemeth narrowed her eyes, deciphering the humans below her, now moving as one body against the encroaching darkspawn horde. The templar’s destiny was doomed; of that Flemeth had no doubt. Even from this distance, Flemeth recognised the taint infecting him.

But the family… the family’s fate was far more uncertain. Flemeth regarded them curiously.

There was something she could discern in the elder man leading his family, something rare and extraordinary, and it gave her pause.

There were extraordinary people – and this man had done well so far against the darkspawn, although Flemeth was sure the attempt to run away could use better direction – but Flemeth had seen enough extraordinary individuals die without being at all moved by any of it.

It wasn’t just a question of skill, although he was undoubtedly skilled. It wasn’t even the fact that, hurtled into the chaos, individuals like this one would fight, and the world would shake and bend before them. Men like that were still mortal.

Morrigan would be making her move. Which meant that Flemeth had to make hers.

And she knew, in that instant, the man leading his family into the darkspawn army was the one whose fate was inexplicably and intrinsically linked with her own.

Perhaps it was chance that brought him before her that day, just when she had need of someone like him. Someone exactly like him, in fact, even though he wouldn’t know it – or understand why. And she was still unsure whether it was fate or chance that she would have to swoop in and save them from the worst of the horde, and grant them safe passage to where they needed to go – which, coincidentally, was not far from where _she_ needed to go.

Flemeth considered the upcoming scene before her, like a grand master considering her next moves in a game of chess. One of the man’s siblings would die in a matter of seconds if she didn’t intervene early enough, for they could not know that there was an ogre on the immediate horizon that would end them today.

And if Flemeth interfered too late; if she decided to leave it to chance that she would find another traveller to perform the favour she would need them to, then all of them would perhaps perish, and her own survival would be at risk.

Not that any of their fates fared any better even if the man lived. But they wouldn’t know that today.

There was always a catch.

If anyone stood a chance of vanquishing the ogre, Flemeth knew, it was this man. With or without her help. But beyond the ogre? Even this extraordinary man was mortal, after all – and the darkspawn were unending; and they needed to go so very far away.

It was decided, then; Flemeth would rescue him from the darkspawn and secure both their fates, and take him to where he – and that fragment of her soul – needed to go; and chance that he would indeed keep his word, chance that her instincts were right.

Indeed, if she was to thwart Morrigan, this was possibly her one chance to survive, as it was his one chance to survive. How fortuitous for them both that she would have to interfere – that karma would ensure they would save each other’s lives, a favour returned for a favour granted.

As much as she hated to decide Fate so directly, even just this once, Flemeth resolved she would step in.

The question, as Flemeth pondered on seeing the ogre appear, was _when_.


	11. XI. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Justice, fairness, truth, cause and effect, law;  
>  **Reversed:** Unfairness, lack of accountability, dishonesty.
> 
> Justice/Anders are forced to consider their last resort. Set before the "Justice" quest in Act 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the week-long break - battled a bit of writer's block on the day I was supposed to write and post this, then things IRL got very busy. But I should be back from now on.
> 
> (Also, obvious prompt is obvious.)

_The cause of mages is lost. We must act now. There is no other way._

He didn’t want to lie to Hawke. She had been his one true friend in Kirkwall, and she had tried so hard with the problems in this city – helped with the mage cause where she could, tried to mediate between Knight Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, even run a few errands for Mistress Selby back in the day.

If it wasn’t for Hawke’s efforts in pretty much every major problem Kirkwall could possibly face, the place and its people would have been reduced to rubble and ash years ago. Everyone knew that.

But then the Qunari had deposed the viscount. Knight Commander Meredith had all but taken over leadership of the city after that, and many of the Mage Underground had been captured and executed without trial. And that was if they were lucky.

If any of the accused that the templars brought in happened to be mages, then innocent or not, they were instantly given the Rite of Tranquillity and condemned to wander the Gallows courtyard forever, the brand on their forehead like an angry sun, serving as a warning of what happened to mages who dared to wish for freedom and fairness in this city.

_The system has failed. The law as it stands needs to be destroyed. Everyone must see._

Selby herself had had to get out of Kirkwall for her own safety. Anders didn’t blame her – in fact, it was he who had encouraged her to go. Spread word to the other free cities. See whom she could rally to help. Selby was too valuable to the cause to lose, after they’d already lost so many other valuable people to the Templar Order’s increasingly fanatical sanctions, midnight raids on families, and increased enthusiasm for inflicting the worst of punishments without even a shred of evidence.

Anders stared at his worn, thin, exhausted face in the mirror, formulating his pleas to the spirit residing within. He could almost see Justice staring back at him, in the form of Kristoff’s own wasted, decaying, dead face like so many years ago.

_We cannot lie to Hawke. Hawke does not deserve us being untruthful to her. It would be unfair._

But Justice was right. Anders had to act. And he was certain Hawke would never support what it was he – and Justice – must do.

Hawke had supported him in everything, had supported them all in everything, and this was how he was going to repay her.

By betraying every single trust and every single faith she had ever placed in him.

And the worst of it was that he was going to need her help in doing so.

_It would be dishonest. It would be unjust._

_It is only a minor infraction compared to the larger injustice that is happening all over Thedas. We have no choice. We have to end this._

If Anders did not act, mages and their supporters would continue to be slaughtered, both in Kirkwall and in every land throughout Thedas.

If Anders did not act, Hawke and her one surviving sibling would be targeted anyway.

If Anders did not act, he would – through his own inaction, through his own refusal to force the change Thedas and mages everywhere so desperately needed – effectively end up with more blood on his hands than he would if he reduced the Chantry to rubble and ash.

The Chantry that effectively sanctioned the genocide of mages and their families and friends by their wilful refusal to step in and end the corruption of their own armies. A thousand years of oppression had only stood because men like Anders had previously been too apathetic or cowardly to fight against it.

It therefore took men like Anders now to summon up the courage to change it.

_There is no compromise. There can be no peace._

Anders did not fear paying for the cause with his life. After what it was he was going to do, he expected to. Justice had to be brought to the Circle, and then to every mage in Thedas. His own life didn’t matter when the stakes were so high.

He simply didn’t want to see the hurt on Hawke’s face.


	12. XII. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Suspension, restriction, letting go, sacrifice;  
>  **Reversed:** Martyrdom, indecision, delay.
> 
> Varric comforts Marian Hawke in his suite after the death of Leandra.
> 
> (Trigger warning: grief, references to death and dismemberment.)

The Hanged Man was a crowded and noisy riot as usual, with the usual rabble of drunks and oil lamps and rusty daggers and a mixture of sour ale and stale urine on the air, but for once Varric couldn’t relax as he stepped over the threshold of the tavern he called home. Stopping only to raise a hand and send a curt nod towards the drunks who roared at him in greeting, he headed straight for the stairs at the back of the bar room, studiously avoiding Corff’s knowing eye, and straight to his lavishly decked suite at the back.

Varric knew exactly what he would find. Marian Hawke lay sprawled across the red rug on the floor, face down in the thick pile, empty bottle in her hand. Sighing, Varric gently prised the bottle from her fingers and set it to one side, then returned to pull her into a seated position.

‘Come on, Hawke. Up you get.’

‘Varric, whyyyyyy?’ came her long cry, her drunken hiccups barely interrupting her drawl. Her bleary eyes were red, and her face was swollen and streaked with tears. ‘Why, Varric? Why? Why? I don’t – _hic_ –’

Varric sighed again, and settled himself next to her on the rug. At least she was talking again; that had to be a start. She’d shut herself in the mansion for the past three weeks and refused to receive anyone; anything that got her out of the house and talking again had to be an improvement, surely.

Even if it had meant drinking herself virtually comatose in his suite.

Hawke hiccupped again, and wiped her face. Varric placed his hand on her shoulder, hating how, for once, his silver tongue was failing them. ‘I don’t know, Hawke. I wish I had an answer for you.’

Hawke sniffled. ‘I was too slow. I wasn’t fast enough. My – my delay killed her.’

‘You got there as fast as you could, Hawke,’ Varric told her gently. ‘None of this was your fault.’

‘I should have done better. I should have done better to protect her. My mother – she deserved better.’

‘You did your best.’

‘But I didn’t!’ Hawke turned her fierce blue eyes on him now, and even through the tears Varric quailed under the force of her glare. ‘I should have asked her more questions about her suitor. I should have acted before those white lilies turned up. I should have kept an eye on her!’

Hawke dissolved into desperate, heart-wrenching, angry sobs. Varric patted her shoulder awkwardly. This was exactly what Isabela and Merrill had warned him about; but he had insisted that Hawke stay with him a few days, fury be damned.

‘Hawke.’ Varric wanted her to understand; _needed_ her to understand. ‘You need to let go of this idea that you did anything less than your best. What happened – was _not your fault_. Nobody would _ever_ think it was your fault.’

Hawke closed her eyes, and Varric braced himself for further shouting and ranting. _Let it come_ , he thought to himself, _if it means she’s not wasting away on her own and blaming herself for Leandra’s demise, let it come_.

Hawke drew in a deep breath. When she spoke, however, her voice was low, angry, shaking.

‘My mother,’ she began, ‘was used as – as a – _sacrifice_ – in some sick, twisted ritual, Varric.’

Varric opened his mouth to tell Hawke she didn’t need to force herself to relive the memories if she didn’t want to, but Hawke interrupted him. ‘No, Varric.’ Her blue eyes blazed, even through her inebriation. ‘I want to talk about this. I _need_ to talk about this.’

Varric hobbled closer on the rug, his hand rubbing her shoulder reassuringly.

‘Then I’m here, Hawke.’

‘The man who – well,’ she glared darkly over Varric’s shoulder, although there was no one there, ‘who did – what he did – was using some sick blood magic ritual to recreate his dead wife. _That’s_ what he used my mother for. There were books on necromancy in his den, and a shrine to a woman who looked like her.’

‘I know.’ Varric shook his head, disgusted. ‘I’m sorry, Hawke.’

‘Don’t be. ‘S’not your fault.’

‘I know. I only wish I’d put an arrow through that bastard’s heart earlier.’

Hawke closed her eyes again, and turned her head away. Varric remembered how the figure had tottered towards them, like a puppet suspended by invisible strings, and how Hawke, in her horror, had been rendered paralysed into indecision and inaction at the sight. Even when Quentin summoned his first shades in defence, it had taken Hawke a while to react; even as Anders, Isabela and himself were already engaged in battle.

Even as Hawke had slain him with her sword, Varric knew it wouldn’t be enough. He shook his head as if to clear it of the memories.

He dropped his hand from her shoulder, and examined the warrior’s face with concern.

‘It’s not your fault either, Hawke. Let go of blaming yourself. It’s not your fault.’

Hawke nodded absentmindedly, her movements unsteady and tired. Her eyes closed again, and she wearily forced them back open.

‘You can stay again tonight, if it helps.’

Hawke blinked slowly, then nodded again. ‘Thank you, Varric. I shall.’


	13. XIII. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Endings, beginnings, change, transformation, transition;  
>  **Reversed:** Resistance to change, unable to move on.
> 
> Carver comforts Merrill after the death of her entire clan.

When he’d received the letter while travelling with the Grey Wardens, Carver had hurried to Kirkwall as quickly as he could. It was fortunate that he had been posted nearby, or he’d really have worried about not being able to make it at all; and the contents of Varric’s letter were not something Carver would have wanted to be unable to act on.

The alienage seemed less crowded than usual, the large vhenadahl tree providing shelter from the rain for the few elves outside, and if there were any curious stares directed at the human in Warden armour hurrying through the courtyard, Carver was too preoccupied to notice them. He banged urgently on the one door that mattered, and when there was no response, let himself inside, making a mental note to mend the bolt on the door later.

The cramped, musty dwelling he entered was gloomy and cold in spite of the glowing embers in the fireplace; Carver supposed it suited the mood of its occupant. He stepped further inside, the thud of his boots on the wooden floor seeming too loud, feeling awkward, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Wondering if she even wanted to see him right now.

He cleared his throat.

‘Merrill?’

A startled scuffle came from the direction of the bedroom, and Carver headed towards the doorway. Merrill was curled in a ball on the floor, sniffling quietly; next to her, the eluvian loomed forbiddingly, silent, accusing.

‘Merrill –’ Carver was instantly by her side, voice as gentle as his touch, helping her into a sitting position. ‘Hey…’

Merrill said nothing as he removed his gauntlets and vambraces, letting him pull her upright like a ragdoll. Her eyes were red and her face was puffy and tear-stained; she’d obviously been crying for days. Carver noticed, with a grimace, that Merrill was even more thin and gaunt than the last time he saw her. She stared resolutely into the fireplace, while Carver stared at her.

‘I suppose Varric told you,’ she finally said.

‘He told me a bit,’ Carver replied.

Merrill’s face crumpled again as she sobbed, and Carver patted her shoulder in an attempt to console her, secretly wishing he was better at this. Merrill sniffled again, and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, still not meeting his concerned gaze.

‘They’re all dead,’ Merrill said, when she’d managed to regain some composure.

Despite himself, Carver flinched at the bluntness of her words. ‘I know.’

‘And it was all my fault.’ Merrill’s voice shook, and she wiped fresh tears from her eyes. ‘I killed them. I killed my clan.’

Carver rubbed her shoulder soothingly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Merrill’s voice was harsh and fierce through her tears. ‘It was all my fault. If I hadn’t been so wilful and – _stubborn_ , if I hadn’t – they would still be alive.’

She dissolved into fresh tears, sobs racking her tiny body, and Carver shuffled closer to put both arms around her. Merrill clutched at him like he was her only life raft and bawled into the brigandine over his chest, her tears soaking the leather, for what seemed like an age.

‘Do you – do you want to talk about it?’ he asked lamely when she eventually released him.

Merrill paused, and looked up at the eluvian. Carver himself refused to look at the mirror; he’d always despised the thing. Not just because it didn’t reflect (what kind of mirror didn’t reflect?) and certainly not just because Merrill lavished all her attention and adoration on it – he’d never trusted that mirror, never trusted her use of blood magic for its sake; and it had even been the subject of a previous heated argument between them which had meant he and Merrill didn’t speak to each other for a year. He rubbed the palm of his hand in slow, soothing movements on her back, silently encouraging her to speak. Merrill drew in a deep breath.

‘I asked Hawke to help me,’ she began. ‘I needed to ask the spirit for aid, because the eluvian still wouldn’t work. I asked if Hawke could – strike me down if the worst happened,’ she blurted, and Carver’s hand involuntarily stilled. ‘But when we got to the cave, the spirit wasn’t there, and it turned out the Keeper –’ Merrill’s face crumpled again, but she steeled herself and took another breath, ‘– the Keeper had got there before me.’

Merrill closed her eyes, and Carver waited for her to continue. ‘The Keeper had – she took the spirit into her body. She said – the spirit wanted me to complete the mirror and I would have been its first victim. So she – she let the spirit possess her to save me. And Hawke… we had to fight the Keeper’s abomination. I had to kill her.’

Carver tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but somehow he couldn’t form the words. His hand remained on her back, as if glued there, and he felt unable to either move or say anything.

‘The clan blamed me for the death of the Keeper,’ Merrill wept, ‘and they – they turned on me. Turned on all of us. Hawke tried to get them to stand down, but they wouldn’t listen, and – we killed them…’

Merrill bowed her head in regret; tears dripped onto the dusty wooden floor. ‘Gone,’ she whimpered. ‘They’re all gone… I’m the only one left…’

‘You were only trying to defend yourselves,’ Carver tried to explain, though he sounded as unconvinced as he felt. ‘You wouldn’t have done it otherwise.’

Merrill continued to sob, and Carver silently lamented how rubbish he was dealing with grief. Perhaps he should have ignored Varric’s letter; Varric himself would have been so much better. He wanted to be there for Merrill, and he wanted to be there _with_ Merrill, but all he was proving now was that he didn’t know how.

‘I’m sorry,’ Merrill said after a while. ‘It’s been nearly two weeks now, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about their faces, and how we… I know I need to move on, but I can’t.’

‘What did the others say?’

‘Well, Fenris and Anders haven’t called, but Isabela, Varric and Aveline have. Hawke did, too. Hawke said I’ve been living for my clan for so long, but now they’re not here anymore, I don’t need to keep living for them anymore. I suppose that part of my life has ended. But I don’t know what to do, now.’

‘What about the eluvian?’ Carver suddenly asked.

Merrill finally looked at him, and Carver wondered if it was a good idea to bring up such a contentious subject right now. ‘What about it?’

‘Well – you don’t need it any more,’ Carver started, hesitantly, ‘and it was the thing that – well, led to everything that happened… and now that your clan and the dem– I mean, the _spirit_ has gone…’

Merrill turned back to the eluvian. Carver was surprised to see the determination and loathing burning in her eyes.

‘You were right, _lethallin_ ,’ she said, standing up. ‘I should have done this years ago.’

Snatching up her staff, she walked over to the mirror, and stood in front of it. Carver got to his feet, grabbing his sword from the wall just in case. Merrill brought her staff over her head and in front of her, slicing through the air, straight into the heart of the unreflective mirror before her. The eluvian smashed into a thousand tiny pieces; Carver stood rooted to the spot in shock, his sword trailing uselessly by his side as Merrill surveyed the wreckage around her feet.

‘I don’t know if that will help me move on,’ she said, walking back over to him.

‘It’s a start,’ Carver said, still in awe over how suddenly and thoroughly Merrill had destroyed the object that had had such a hold over her for the last Maker-knew-how-many years.

‘I suppose it’ll make a change,’ she agreed, ‘not having to think about the eluvian or my clan all the time. It’ll be strange, but I have to get used to it.’

‘Think of it as a new beginning,’ Carver told her.

‘That’s what Hawke said. I asked Hawke “what should I do now?” and Hawke said I could do whatever I liked. Something I wanted, rather than what somebody else wanted, for a change. But I suppose I wasn’t ready for anything like that when Hawke said it. Until now.’

‘Until now,’ Carver repeated. His head was still swimming.

Merrill smiled for the first time since he’d come in; a small, wry smile, but a smile nonetheless. That had to be a victory, surely. Carver started to feel perhaps it was a good thing he’d come after all.

He and Merrill had always been good friends, in spite of their differences, and Varric had assured him that if anyone could put a smile on Merrill’s face, he could. Carver had never been quite so sure of that, himself, but he wasn’t about to desert Merrill in her grief when Varric had written to tell him of her bereavement.

Merrill swung her staff to one side, and took a step towards him. ‘Thanks for coming, Carver,’ she said. ‘I really appreciated it.’

‘No problem. I – I’ll help you clean up…’

‘Carver,’ Merrill took another step towards him, and Carver suddenly felt as if the atmosphere between them had changed with something he couldn’t define, ‘will you stay with me?’

‘Here? Tonight?’

Merrill waited expectantly for his response.

‘…Right. Alright, then.’

‘Thank you,’ Merrill sounded relieved. ‘Of course, if it’s no trouble for you –’

‘No! No. If – only if you want me to, of course I’ll –’

‘Please,’ Merrill closed the remaining distance between them, and took Carver’s hand in hers, ‘Carver. I want you to stay tonight. I don’t see you very often.’

There was no question of Carver _not_ staying whenever Merrill said those words to him, and Carver would blush and stammer like a schoolboy every time she did so, but now… something was different. Merrill was grieving over her clan, and Carver knew that, and Merrill needed a good friend there with her to see her through the night, and Carver would be there simply because she needed him to be there.

But it wasn’t just that she needed him with her tonight. Something about the destruction of the mirror, something about the ending of her old life and the death of her clan and the beginning of her new path, had changed their relationship; and now here they were, hand in hand, gazing at each other with nothing to hold either of them back from each other any more…

‘You’ve always been good to me, Carver,’ she murmured.

‘I try,’ he said, earnestly.

Carver scrunched his eyes closed, trying to push the thoughts of _something is different this time_ out of his head – where _did_ they come from, anyway? – and when he thought he’d composed himself, he opened his eyes again; and was about to offer to clear away the mirror shards (he didn’t want Merrill cutting her feet on them – that mirror had done more than enough damage) when he saw Merrill’s curious eyes staring at him.

‘You’re blushing,’ she observed, her voice chirpier than it had been.

‘It’s hot in here,’ Carver mumbled, going even redder.

‘Really? But the fire’s not even on. Shall I help you out of your armour? It must be _awfully_ hot in all that metal.’

‘No,’ Carver said quickly, dropping her hand from his, ‘it’s fine. I’ll – just clear up the mirror.’

Merrill shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ she pouted, watching Carver push all the mirror shards into the corner of the room, out of harm’s way. ‘Although did I miss something dirty again?’

Carver merely chuckled. Some things _didn’t_ change.

They slept with their clothes on that night, Merrill in Carver’s arms; and even though they did no more than sleep (although Carver would comfort Merrill through a few more waves of raw, sobbing grief before she _could_ sleep), that was the night beginning this _thing_ between them, so precious and beautiful and new; everything they’d both secretly wanted, and everything that Varric said was long overdue anyway.


	14. XIV. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Balance, moderation, patience, purpose, meaning;  
>  **Reversed:** Imbalance, excess, lack of long-term vision.
> 
> Letters between Seneschal Bran and the Viscount on the situation in Kirkwall in Act 2, as the balance of power becomes ever more delicate and dangerous. 
> 
> (Epistolary ficlet with a dash of light humour to counter the sombreness of the last two prompts.)

Your Excellency,

Allow me to present to you this exquisite bottle of Aggregio Pavali. It is a curiously little-known fact that the Blooming Rose, despite its ostensible reputation as a… house of ill repute, stocks the very finest collection of wines. This Tevinter wine is indeed of a particularly rare vintage, and I have rather acquired a taste for it. I present it to you as a gift, for you will need it with what I’m about to tell you next.

As you are no doubt aware, the political situation in Kirkwall has grown somewhat… precarious in recent years, and dissension in the ranks of the many factions you have to appease grows louder. The delicate balance of power in this city grows ever more unstable – though which issue will be the first to topple it, I cannot yet say. The Qunari’s refusal to vacate the Compound any time soon – for no reason that we have yet been able to discern – is the most obvious cause of concern. Happily, we have so far managed to keep Saemus’s sympathies largely hushed up – though his open embrace of the Qun is, frankly, the very least of our worries on that front.

There are elements that seem to be particularly zealous in petitioning for the forcible removal of the Qunari, and as you already know, there is one report that reaches this office again and again bearing the seal of the Grand Cleric, though I do not suspect that Grand Cleric Elthina herself is behind them. Not least as Her Grace would be more likely to seek a private audience with us herself if she had any concerns, rather than resorting to hiding behind written calls to mobilise the City Guard and Templar Order to ‘drive the heathens out.’

Reports of mage unrest have also reached this office; tensions between mage and templar have long been present in Kirkwall, but I would not be so willing to dismiss the most recent grumbles as ‘nothing more than the usual.’ Rumour has it that some of the more worrying happenings in this city – the murder of a dozen templars in the Chantry three years ago, Circle mages disappearing without trace from the Gallows, and so on – have been caused by rogue factions that have grown increasingly resentful at the current balance of power. There have been murmurs that apostates, colluding with elements within the Circle itself, have been behind many of these.

Rumour also has it that a certain prodigal son returning to Kirkwall – namely one Garrett Hawke, the new scion of the Amell family, the grandson of the oligarch whom you so thoroughly vanquished after the demise of Perrin Threnhold to take the role of viscount for yourself – has either been behind many of these incidents, or is in cahoots with those who are. Hawke himself rose to prominence after supposedly finding a great fortune in the Deep Roads that allowed him to restore the Amells to their former glory – and after rescuing your son from the Winters all those years ago, Saemus rather looks up to Hawke and his example. Hawke’s sharp rise to the power and influence he now holds has more than upset the equilibrium of power among the nobility; and, dare I say it, the city itself. In any case, he is untouchable. We need him more than he needs us. Not least because, according to my sources, he is unfortunately the only citizen the Arishok would consider dealing with.

I do hate to burden you with these matters, Your Excellency, but I thought a detailed summary of the situation right now may help us gather our thoughts and consider what our next move should be.

I remain, Sir, your most faithful and obedient servant,

Seneschal Bran

\------

Bran,

Thank you most profusely for the wine. It is of an excellent vintage as you say, and I am most happy to place my trust in your hands regarding such matters. Please note, however, that your missive caused me so much consternation upon reading it, that I may require you to source me another bottle.

That the Arishok and his men appear to be making no attempt to locate a ship to take them back to Par Vollen is indeed… disquieting, to say the least. I confess I am at a loss on that front – as he refuses to receive any representative of mine, I am at no liberties to find out what he wants. For all anyone knows, he might even be waiting for an opportune moment to conquer us all, to give the Qunari a foothold in fair Kirkwall. I know nothing of the Qunari or their motivations, and I do not wish to trouble the City Guard into organising the security supervision I would necessitate in order to personally visit the Compound to find out.

The idea of zealous elements within the Chantry is a truly disturbing one, but surely this is under the Grand Cleric’s remit, rather than mine. I cannot see that I can forcibly remove the Qunari any more than Her Grace can, but it is clear from the missives that the people – some people, at least – see the Qunari as a threat, and the risk is that that will derail the peace and stability of this city, especially if the Qunari are goaded into responding.

In addition, mage–templar tensions have always been present in this city, but I acknowledge your concern that they seem to have risen of late. However I cannot run this office without the support of the templars, and Knight Commander Meredith holds admittedly as much power as this office, and commands the largest army in the city. If things do indeed get out of hand, I trust that she will step in and deal with the situation as admirably and terrifyingly as she dealt with the chaos that Perrin Threnhold unleashed – after which, as you recall, she personally appointed me to the Viscount’s seat. My hands are therefore tied on that front.

I remember this Hawke fellow. Regardless of whatever I have heard on the man or the company he keeps, I am grateful to him at least for returning Saemus safely, even if I do question some of his influence on the boy. I fail to see why I should be concerned with, or what I can do about, the upset his rise has caused among some of the nobility and the citizens of Lowtown, but somehow people expect me to be able to _do_ something about it. Or that I should _want_ to.

The Qunari, then, are probably the issue that this office should focus on. The only issue that this office _can_ focus on… if only to stall the Arishok from taking over.

Years of nice, quiet anxiety. What I wouldn’t do to have them back.

Sincerely,

Viscount Dumar

\------

Your Excellency,

If the Arishok wanted to take over, I suspect he simply would, and Kirkwall would be unable to resist. I believe, as does Saemus, that the Arishok has another reason, another purpose, for remaining here; for he and his men do not seem to enjoy being penned in the dockside compound any more than we enjoy them being there.

Despite the… seriousness of the situation – or _potential_ seriousness if we do nothing at all – I would caution that we do not act rashly. These are delicate matters, and require delicate handling. Whatever we choose to do, I advise patience and temperance. Moderation is key.

Perhaps it is even best to remove ourselves completely from the equation, and engage a neutral third party to help us negotiate. This would require a competence that is so rare as to be extinct in this city, but it remains possibly our least worst option at this point in time.

I remain, Sir, your most humble and respectful servant,

Seneschal Bran

\------

Bran,

Noted. Who would you suggest?

Sincerely,

Viscount Dumar

\------

Your Excellency,

I suggest Hawke.

Courteously,

Seneschal Bran

\------

Bran,

Agreed. Call him into my office at the first opportunity.

Gratefully,

Viscount Dumar

\------

Seneschal, dear,

When will I see my delicious Honey Badger again? Remember: all work and no play makes Bran a dull boy!

Don’t be a stranger,

Serendipity

\------

Serendipity,

I appreciate your… discretion in smuggling your note to me. I was rather… surprised to see the pirate girl strutting into my office, producing your note with a flourish and a wink; but as she was accompanying Hawke I am happy to report the Viscount did not think to question it. He has not been able to think of much, of late.

In any case, I shall be at least calling at the Blooming Rose soon, as I have urgent business to discuss with Quintus. More specifically, after… recent events, Viscount Dumar is feeling a strong need to relax and unwind with some of the finest vintages he has. Would you care to alert Quintus to the possibility that his wine cellar may be depleted after my visit?

Yours affectionately,

Seneschal Bran (Honey Badger)

\------

Your Excellency,

As you are already aware after Hawke’s visit just now, matters have steadily deteriorated since I last updated you on these subjects, despite having seemingly improved for a short time. ‘Political maelstrom’ is only a mild way of putting it, with one fiasco after another and finally culminating in the slain Qunari delegate. Worst still, at the hands of those supposedly acting under the authority of the Grand Cleric.

Her Grace has denied all knowledge of her authority being misused in such a way, and gently advised me that it was up to the Maker to intervene, not her. Her Grace also informed me that Qunari diplomacy is a subject better suited for the _de facto_ ruler of Kirkwall, and therefore she happily defers to your judgement on these matters.

To make matters worse, the bodies of several anti-Qunari fundamentalists were found strewn bloodied and battered in the Chantry; rumour has it that Hawke (who else?) was behind the carnage (as usual). Furthermore, according to Hawke, the Arishok is near breaking point, declaring that ‘the provocations the Qunari have suffered have worked’. We must urgently do something to contain this situation before it is too late.

I remain, Sir, your most sincere and loyal servant,

Seneschal Bran

\------

Bran,

I’m preparing for the worst. The very worst. Would you care to order me several crates of absorbent linens?

Sincerely,

Viscount Dumar


	15. XV. The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Bondage, addiction, sexuality, materialism;  
>  **Reversed:** Detachment, breaking free, power reclaimed.
> 
> Fenris kills Danarius, and Hawke pays him a visit afterwards. 
> 
> M!Hawke/Fenris ficlet. Dialogue and setting largely taken from the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for having been away so long (it's been just over a month since I last updated this - I'm so sorry!), but I've had to deal with a lot of personal-ish issues this last month, including a funeral we had to travel for, hence why I've been away for so long. I've only just got back into writing fic; progress has been / will be slow, but it feels really good to get back into it again.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me, and patiently waited for me to update this. I hope you enjoy this next instalment :-)
> 
> \------

‘Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.’

Fenris looked up, confused at first, then his eyes widened in horror.

Danarius, his former master, the devil himself, descended the stairs of the Hanged Man. Hawke was right; this had been a trap. How foolish he had been. To think Varania could be trusted. To think Danarius had forgotten all about him. To think his past wouldn’t catch up with him, that it wouldn’t be his downfall and snare one day.

He wheeled round on his sister. Varania guiltily cowered before him, while Danarius’s metal-clad guards followed the magister down the stairs, glinting menacingly in the tavern's low light. Varania bowed her head.

‘I’m sorry it came to this, Leto.’

Fenris snarled at her. ‘You led him here!’

‘Now, now, Fenris,’ Danarius cut in smoothly, condescendingly; Fenris could almost feel Hawke bristling behind him. ‘Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.’

‘I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius,’ Fenris spat, despite his heart pounding. ‘But I won’t let you kill me to get them!’

Danarius merely laughed. ‘Oh, how little you know my pet.’ He let his cold grey eyes linger on Fenris awhile, noting how the elf stood rooted to the spot, unable to move despite his bravado. Even after so many years living free, Fenris hated how easily he slipped back into the role of slave, of submissive, even when he hadn’t been one for years.

Old habits died hard.

Satisfied with Fenris’s obvious discomfort, the magister turned to Hawke, who was glaring at him murderously. ‘And this is your new master, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive!’

‘Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone!’ shouted Hawke, and hearing those words from _Hawke_ ’s lips rallied Fenris’s spirits, brought him back to the here and now.

‘Do I detect a note of jealousy?’ Danarius smirked. The colour rose in Hawke’s cheeks at the taunt, but the magister continued, seemingly oblivious. ‘It’s not surprising. The lad is… rather _skilled_ , isn’t he?’

‘Shut your mouth, Danarius!’ Fenris roared, furious yet terrified of what else he would reveal. _Not in front of Hawke_ , his panicked mind chattered, _Hawke doesn’t need to know the things I did for Danarius, the things he made me do_ …

Danarius sighed, exasperated. ‘The word is “master”,’ he said, his condescending tone now stern, and everyone who remained in the Hanged Man drew their weapons.

\------

The fight was short and brutal, but somehow it seemed to last an age. Danarius himself only joined the fight at the last, summoning shades and demons upon demons, and blood and fire rained down on the taproom floor.

In defeat, Danarius had crouched panting on red-spattered ground, small and scared in the blue glow of Fenris’s lyrium markings as the elf loomed over him; looking less like the towering devil, the unbeatable monster, of Fenris’s nightmares, and more like the weasel of a man that he was. A man with real terror in his eyes as he realised he was about to die.

‘You are not my master,’ were Fenris’s last words to him, before he ripped his heart out of his chest.

\------

Slaying Danarius had not brought the satisfaction Fenris thought it would.

The death of the magister surely should have meant Fenris had well and truly succeed in breaking free of his bondage; his detachment from any former life – or lives – had been well and truly accomplished. He had no one who would come after him anymore, no shadow on the horizon to constantly check over his shoulder for. Yet… freedom wasn’t how he thought it would be. He should have been savouring it; instead it tasted like ashes.

This… this _hate_. It had been his constant companion for the last six years, his reason to live, his fuel that fed the fire within; but now Fenris could see that it _was_ the fire within, and a fire that would turn him to ash as surely as any conflagration would. Even with Danarius gone, with Hadriana gone, with his sister and his past banished to mere memory, this hatred that burned within him wouldn’t abate.

This hatred that had kept him going had never been his friend – yet Fenris had been its loyal mabari, Fenris had fed it as much as it fed him; fanning the flames of his addiction to it under the mistaken impression that it would sustain him rather than burn him out. Perhaps this hatred _had_ been his friend once. But it had ceased to be so a while ago, and Fenris had been too far gone to realise it.

_The chains may be broken, but are you truly free?_

Even after so many years, Flemeth’s words still rang true. Fenris shut his eyes shook his head to clear it, and tried to turn his mind to other things.

Like Hawke.

Of all the newfound freedoms Fenris had tentatively explored over the past six years, exploring his sexuality had been the one Fenris had been most apprehensive about. Previously, everything had been all about Danarius. What Fenris wanted, needed, thought, or desired didn’t factor into it. He was there solely and wholely to serve another, unquestioningly and unthinkingly. The idea that Fenris could actually _take what he wanted_ in that sense was something Fenris could never get accustomed to.

And when he had finally mustered up the courage to do something about it, when Hawke had so gently encouraged and allowed him to do something about it, Fenris had messed up.

This wonderful man, so unlike anyone Fenris had ever met before, who had done nothing but continually show his patience and support, had tried to give Fenris the safe space he needed to explore that aspect of himself, and Fenris had repaid it by walking out of his life the very next day.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut. Never mind Tevinter – Hawke was his biggest regret. Hawke, who had never breathed a word about it after Fenris shut him down after that – that _night_ , the best and the most terrifying exhilarating night of Fenris’s life – Hawke, the man who continued by Fenris’s side in spite of everything.

Hawke, the man who even helped him kill Danarius. Even though what they had between them was over. Even though Hawke still looked at him with those sad amber eyes, full of longing, when he thought Fenris wasn’t looking. Fenris knew exactly how Hawke felt, because he often returned those wistful gazes when he thought _Hawke_ wasn’t looking. (No thanks to that Dalish witch for pointing _that_ out.)

How Fenris wished he could go back in time. Tell Hawke how he really felt. Tell Hawke that nothing and no one was more important to him than Hawke, and nothing ever would be.

But no, Fenris had been too caught up in himself and his hate; too caught up in his thirst for revenge. And in doing so, he’d even allowed Danarius – through his training as a slave, through old habits that lingered – to ruin the one thing that had actually mattered to him, the one power he had: his love for Hawke.

If only there was a way to reclaim that power. To rekindle what was lost, and extinguish what was no longer needed.

Footsteps could be heard on the stairs; Fenris turned his head at the sound. As if on cue, Hawke stood in the doorway, concern and love etched on his features.

Hawke was still here after all this time. Perhaps there was still a chance for both of them after all, despite what happened three years ago. But they needed to talk first.

\------

‘I need to understand why you left, Fenris,’ Hawke said, voice gentle, after Fenris poured his heart out, begged for his forgiveness.

‘I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain, the memories it brought up… it was – too much,’ Fenris told him, looking away to screw up his courage again. Every nerve in his body wanted to run, but Fenris forced himself to remain on the spot, forced himself to talk. He owed Hawke this much. ‘I was a coward. If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.’

‘What would you have said?’

Fenris faced him then, forced himself now to look Hawke in the eye. The other man was visibly emotional; there was nothing left but to tell him the truth. ‘Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.’

Fenris drew his face level with Hawke’s; he could hear the other man’s heart thumping madly, lips parted through his dark beard as he stared longingly back at him. ‘If there is a future to be had,’ Fenris told him truthfully, amazed at how easily the words flowed now, ‘I will walk into it gladly at your side.’

Hawke stood up, unable to hold back anymore, and Fenris took him into his arms as Hawke slid his own arms around him. Three years of yearning, of being apart, yet his touch was just as Fenris remembered it; even better in fact – they fit together like they were always meant to –

– and Fenris knew now this was real, this was _it_ , he was Hawke’s and Hawke was his, two equal halves of a whole, like they always had been; time had not dimmed their love, and for that Fenris was more grateful than he could ever say. Their mouths met, tentative and shy at first; their tongues tangled together, bolder and passionate and oh so _right_ … and no more words needed to be spoken; from that night on, they were as one.


	16. XVI. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Disaster, upheaval, sudden change, revelation;  
>  **Reversed:** Avoidance of disaster, fear of change.
> 
> Carver relives the Tower of Ishal incident at the Battle of Ostagar through a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: death, gore, graphic descriptions of death and gore.
> 
> Also, the broken sentences towards the end are deliberate - don't worry, I wasn't being lax with my proofreading!
> 
> But, yeah. Carver has a nightmare, and it's pretty grisly :-( Sorry.
> 
> \------

Carver was tossing and turning in his sleep again.

Each night had brought a different nightmare to torment him. For the past week it had been Bethany, again and again.

Tonight, it was the Battle of Ostagar.

The storm had raged all day, and even with the coming of the evening it showed no sign of abating. The rain died away as night fell, but everyone could still see the lightning flashes in the distance that warned the Fereldan army to brace themselves for another storm on its way. It was an apt metaphor for what was about to happen that night, even if they didn’t know it yet, standing in the sodden mud of the battlefield.

Carver could still feel the anticipation of the troops, could almost smell it as if he was in the battlefield right now instead of reliving it in dreams. It was no less real to him – except this time, he knew what was going to happen.

He tried to shout, tried to warn everyone, yet nothing came out of his mouth. Beneath the purple clouds of the night sky, King Cailan paced in front of them, with what remaining light there was glinting off his golden armour and hair.

‘You know what to do,’ Carver remembered the commander saying from earlier that day. ‘We follow the King’s orders. We’re his best soldiers, we’ve won three battles already; but today, we provide the distraction for the ambush that will finish the horde off. We will charge into battle first, we destroy as many darkspawn as possible, and when the signal at the Tower of Ishal is lit, when those flames go up in the giant torch, that’s when Teyrn Loghain’s unit will spring the ambush. If all goes according to plan, we will not fail today.’

 _The Blight ends here_.

From over the horizon, Carver could see the darkspawn horde charging towards them; there were far more of them than anyone had been led to expect. Despite himself, Carver gripped his sword tighter, sweating nervously in his armour, waiting for King Cailan to give the word.

‘Archers!’ he heard the King shout.

From above, a sea of fiery arrows lit up the sky and sailed over everyone’s heads; they pinned back the front lines of darkspawn troops, but there were too many. The army was outnumbered, and the darkspawn kept running; some of them were huge, horned beasts – ogres – that Carver had been warned about and seen plenty of pictures of, but the pictures had never given an indication of just how enormous they actually were.

‘No,’ Carver murmured, remembering how the reinforcements never came. But the dream played on.

‘Hounds!’ Cailan cried.

A swarm of mabari galloped across the field – brave, loyal creatures who gave their all – and were promptly swallowed up by the encroaching darkspawn. In spite of their best canine efforts, the darkspawn rode on towards the king and his men.

‘For Ferelden!’

The army charged forward with a roar, and Carver heard himself yell ‘For Ferelden!’ with pride and ferocity along with them as the soldiers met the horde. Swords clanged and clanked, bellows and growls rose up from the field, the metallic tang of blood and the rotting stench of darkspawn filled the air, and the slashing and cries of the dying could be heard among the mêlée, but Carver focused only on powering his way through the hurlocks that greeted him, cutting them down before they had a chance to spit and snarl their filth at him. He’d been good in training, determined, tough, powerful and swift, but out here on the field the adrenaline made him sharper and fitter as he fought and it was glorious. It felt good, fighting, facing the enemy; and Carver relished the chance to prove he could do this, he could defend his country and countrymen and do himself and the king of Ferelden proud.

A great cheer arose above the din, and during a lull in battle Carver looked up and saw the Tower of Ishal, high above them all in the darkness, erupt into flames; surely it could be seen for miles around as it burned, perhaps even as far as Lothering.

This was supposed to be the moment that everything would suddenly change. The ambush would be arriving any minute now to surprise and rout the rest of the horde.

The excitement and adrenaline made Carver push on – not long now, any minute now, just a few more darkspawn bastards for him to finish off and then they could retreat victorious…

But nothing came. The hours wore on, the warriors increasingly more tired as the night progressed; the Tower burned on, but the promised ambush wasn’t there.

 _A beacon of hope, answered with nothing_.

Disaster had struck. Loghain had betrayed the King. Had abandoned them all.

Realisation was dawning on the army; the revelation of the betrayal made every warrior on the field panic. Some of them even tried to run, only to be brutally slaughtered by the darkspawn, whose numbers suddenly seemed to swell.

Carver panicked, backing away. There was more of them than they ever could have anticipated. And no help was coming.

But no. He had to stand and fight. That was what being a warrior was all about. That was why he’d got his mabari tattoo – for strength, determination, for fighting through your fear. That was why Peaches told him he was the bravest man she’d ever known.

He ran forward, sword brandished once more, only to be knocked back by the thundering through the earth of –

– an ogre _a fucking ogre_ , the biggest Carver had ever seen, and it was coming for the warrior in the shiny gold armour… _the King_ …

and Carver tried to scream a warning from his position on the ground but the King turned round too late

and King Cailan drew his sword but

the ogre picked him up

like a toy

the screaming was inhuman

the crushing sound of the metal was _horrible_

bright scarlet stuff squirted through the gold

his limp body was tossed away like a red ragdoll

and Carver had to run, he had to run, he knew there was no hope now, all was lost, all was lost, he didn’t care who called him a deserter or if he’d be executed for treason but he couldn’t stop to think about that, couldn’t stop to think about the king,

couldn’t stop to think about anything right now because today he had to live, because his family needed to know, his family needed to get out, and his family were all that mattered now…

Carver zigzagged through the battlefield, back to the fortress, his strides swift and long, adrenaline and panic carrying his tired legs through the night, his only thought being that he needed to get out and get back to his family as fast as possible and tell them the Blight was coming, it really was coming, and they all had to get out.

Damn the upheaval, _they had to go_. Disaster couldn’t be avoided, it was coming.

And it frightened him.

‘ _You deserted them_ ,’ came Bethany’s accusing voice out of nowhere as he ran, pouring with sweat now. The fortress seemed to move with him, no matter how fast he ran the fortress drifted away from him, leaving Bethany’s voice to taunt him some more. ‘ _You deserted them, Carver, and I died_.’

‘NOOOOOOOOO!!!’ screamed Carver, and at that point he woke up, panting, soaked, out of breath. He sat up in the darkness, rigid, and blindly groped around for his sword.

A flame flickered, and Leandra’s face came into vision. ‘Carver!’ she whispered, the worry lines on her face sharp in the candlelight. She quickly seated herself beside him, and placed a thin hand on his heaving shoulder. ‘Is everything all right with you, dear?’

Carver let his breathing slow before he eventually spoke. ‘’M fine,’ was all he managed to mumble when he had calmed down enough. ‘Just a bad dream, that’s all. Don’t worry, Mother. You go back to sleep.’


	17. XVII. The Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright meaning:** Hope, spirituality, renewal, inspiration, serenity;   
> **Reversed meaning:** Lack of faith, despair, discouragement.
> 
> Amidst the manifesto pages strewn across the writing desk, Hawke finds a poem Anders has written.

You are the one bright light in Kirkwall, my own North Star

A beacon for all mages, both near and far;

You’ve been a good friend, my inspiration fair and true,

I know you will guide me when I most need you

 

I cling to these thoughts when all seems lost

When I wonder if Justice was worth the cost;

When discouragement reigns, and I’m filled with despair

And lost all faith, you remind me why I care.

 

For templar oppression makes me lose my serenity;

I just cannot believe that this is our spirituality.

‘Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him’

Is the justification they use for every hateful whim.

 

But the Maker gave us mages magic for a reason

To use our Maker-given gifts can’t possibly be treason

I am thankful you are here to show all of Kirkwall how

Your example to us all is why the world must change now

 

Your renewal of my courage gives me strength, and I admire you,

As do the people of Kirkwall; I know inside there’s a fire you

Will never allow to burn out, even when it gets hard to cope;

I have faith in you. You are our one hope.


	18. XVIII. The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright:** Illusion, fear, anxiety, insecurity, subconscious;  
>  **Reversed:** Release of fear, unhappiness, confusion.
> 
> Knight Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino grow increasingly paranoid about the other.

‘So I shouldn’t slit my wrists and dance naked under the moonlight just to join in?’

It hadn’t been the best joke on Hawke’s part; but given the gravity of the task the Champion was being given, as well as Orsino’s own worries about renegade mages, the First Enchanter gladly seized on the excuse to lighten the mood a bit. ‘Well, Champion, if that is what you intend, then I might join you,’ Orsino had replied, smiling wryly; the Champion had left his office shortly after, citing ‘business with Knight Commander Meredith’ as the reason.

 _Meredith_. Orsino scowled as he gazed out of the window of his office. Of course Meredith would request the Champion’s services as well, although Orsino did not blame Hawke for not refusing – it would be foolishness to refuse Meredith, and the Champion was not a fool.

‘The meeting will take around the Hightown Estates when the full moon is highest,’ Orsino’s source had said, and the Circle mages in question – suspected maleficarum – who had escaped were allegedly meeting templars there for some purpose unknown. Whatever that purpose was, Orsino feared it would not be good. Indeed, the anxiety that had consumed him since his informant told him three nights ago had kept him awake since. Meredith’s paranoia and insecurity had only increased in the last three years, and Orsino did not want to think how much worse life would be for himself and his charges after this incident. He only hoped the Champion could put a stop to it all and conceal it before Meredith found out.

\------

A different sort of anxiety was consuming the tenant of the office across the hall, though no less intense. Knight Commander Meredith paced up and down, deep in thought. The Champion’s last reports had indeed been disturbing; of the three escaped mages she had tasked Hawke with returning, two had turned out to be maleficarum who had to be killed – but not before Huon and Evelina had taken the lives of innocents with them. Only Emile de Launcet had turned out not to be a blood mage; and even then, that foolish boy had only claimed he was one in order to – Meredith wrinkled her nose at the thought – ‘attract girls’. The Knight Commander herself very much doubted that such a thing would impress the ladies, even nowadays – but, frankly, who knew with these mages. There was no limit to their depravation.

De Launcet was silly at the best of times, but even that could be an illusion, a disguise, for something far more sinister. He was a mage, after all. And one should _never_ be fooled by any mage, no matter how innocent and harmless they appeared to be – you could never tell what horrors were lurking within the subconscious of a mage, no matter how sweet and helpless they seemed. After all, look what had happened with Little Sister Amelia.

And now…? More mages had escaped the Circle, and apparently nobody had any idea where they had gone. Meredith was certain First Enchanter Orsino was behind the escapes – he had long been a troublemaker, a thorn in her side, but now that their already-frayed working relationship had completely broken down, only the Maker knew what secret and dangerous plan that man was up to.

Meredith glared at the closed door that separated her office from the First Enchanter’s opposite. It was surely only logical that Orsino had freed the apostates somehow.

The mages would pay for their crimes. Meredith would make sure of it.

All she needed was proof that she was right.


	19. XIX. The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright meaning:** Fun, warmth, success, positivity, vitality;  
>  **Reversed meaning:** Temporary depression, lack of success.
> 
> Fenris/Isabela spar on a beach on the Wounded Coast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slowness in posting these final few chapters up. The World Cup happened, that's what.

‘Dance with me, Fenris,’ Isabela was saying, and Fenris, smirking, drew his sword as Isabela unsheathed both her daggers with a flourish and a saucy smile. They often sparred on the Wounded Coast like this, but Fenris knew this dance was every bit as much a seduction on Isabela’s part as it was a chance to practise together.

Not that Fenris didn’t find it fun to duel the pirate, of course.

The sun beat down on the white sand of the beach, and the warmth of it on Fenris’s feet was just perfect. He swung his sword as Isabela swished her daggers, the weapons clashing and clanking as their bodies danced, forward then back, backward then forward, their weapons flashing white in the sunlight as they clinked and clanged a music of their own. Isabela whirled around as fast as her daggers did, pirouetting on the sand but never once losing her footing, graceful and deadly and full of zest and vitality; Fenris had always admired that about her. He grinned and slashed his sword through the air as she somersaulted away from him with a taunting, joyful laugh, knowing they were well-matched and even despite their different fighting styles.

Isabela advanced again, but Fenris was able to block her with his blade; she wheeled away, but not without casting an appreciative glance back at him. Fenris chuckled to himself. He was ready for her, whatever she did – and judging by her sexy smirk, she knew it too.

They panted, staring at each other, drinking in the sight of each other’s bodies as they readied their weapons again. A thrill of excitement and anticipation ran through Fenris’s body, as lightning-fast as his lyrium reflexes in battle. Isabela’s brown eyes smouldered with a heat that had nothing to do with the sunny, cloudless day; her ample, perfect breasts heaved as she panted, and Fenris was amused at how easy it was for them to distract each other.

‘A poor choice of attack,’ Fenris mused, voice deep and calm, trying to hide a smile.

‘Never,’ mocked Isabela smoothly, as she slowly circled him.

Their weapons met again, but their eyes never left the other’s; Isabela’s elegant movements darting forwards and back met fair and square by Fenris’s own sleek and powerful counters. He was as much an artist as she was, Isabela thought, beautiful and unyielding and unbreakable, no matter how much Life had tried to break his will and spirit, and Isabela could respect that as much as she could identify with it. His sword clanked again to her daggers and forced them behind her back, and, catching her off-guard, Fenris drew her body into his.

‘A _very_ poor choice of attack,’ he whispered, smirking face close to hers, green eyes smouldering dangerously.

Despite her initial surprise, Isabela laughed; her laughter rang out with positivity and confidence and merriment. ‘Watch me,’ she warned playfully, eyes sparkling, as Fenris chuckled and released her to ready himself again. They circled each other on the warm sand, sword and daggers drawn, pretending that neither of them were willing to give in.

Eventually, Fenris lunged forward, straight at Isabela, sword crashing into daggers as Isabela somersaulted backwards; but Isabela was gone, having faded from view, and Fenris wheeled round to anticipate her, but quick as a flash she was behind him, holding one of her daggers to his throat.

It had been an audacious and risky move on her part, but her triumph was undoubted. Not that Fenris didn’t welcome her success – especially when it came with her body wrapped very deliberately around his.

‘Got you this time,’ she murmured, hot breath against his ear, and Fenris could only smile as she pressed her breasts tighter against his back.

‘That you have,’ he replied, and in one swift movement he spun round and they landed with a soft thud on the sand, Fenris pinning her wrists down on either side of her head as he loomed over her with a satisfied smirk.

‘I was hoping you’d do that,’ she panted, voice smug, looking every inch like the cat that got the cream despite their reversed positions.

‘I know,’ he said, equally smug.

‘I always get on top in the end,’ Isabela declared, grabbing Fenris’s shoulders and whirling him round, till he was pinned firmly beneath her with her knees on either side of his hips, hot where their bodies met, and Fenris laughed as he looked up at her and the vast, endless, clear blue sky above them both.

‘I know,’ he repeated as she leaned in for a kiss.

They tussled on the beach until the sun went down, alternating their positions on top and below, delighting in everything they had to offer each other and agreeing that they would duel again one day.


	20. XX. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright meaning:** Judgement, rebirth, inner calling, absolution;  
>  **Reversed meaning:** Self-doubt, refusal of self-examination.
> 
> (Written in the 2nd person point of view - thought I'd experiment a bit for this one.)
> 
> When you’re the Champion of Kirkwall, and everyone looks to you after Anders has just blown up the Chantry, what should you do?

Orsino is calling for calm. Meredith is calling for blood.

In the midst of it all, as your city collapses all about you and civilians are tearing through the streets, Anders sits on that upturned box, strangely calm among the panic and fire and fear.

He’s been your faithful companion, always by your side, these last seven years. He came to Kirkwall not long after you did, driven by some inner calling to help free a friend, to help free mages; and here he sits, driven by that same compulsion – and perhaps even Justice – to blow up the Chantry; blow the city apart.

They left you to deal with the fallout. They called on you, Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, to decide Anders’s fate.

Frankly, who knows why the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter have left such a matter to you. One thing is clear, though: only your judgement carries weight now.

He sits in front of you, upright and defiant, clad in black with his back to you; scruffy blond ponytail above shiny raven feather pauldrons, at once so familiar yet so strange, for you are as dumbfounded by his actions as you are blindsided. You weren’t expecting this. You should have expected this. They say you shielded a terrorist. They say you helped a freedom fighter. So many thoughts whirl around in your mind and you close your eyes, hoping for some respite from the tornado in your head, but it never comes and _they want you to make a decision about Anders_ , they want you to make the ultimate judgement, and you have no idea what to do or where to even start, but everyone is looking at you and _you never asked for this, you never asked to be Champion, it just… happened…_

You approach him. You stand behind him, unsure if you want to see his face. You want to know why he did this. Why he didn’t tell you. He sits there radiating defiance, and you’re not sure if it’s brazenness or bravado. Not a shred of self-doubt tinges his voice when he speaks; his tone seemingly refuses all self-examination when he answers your unspoken question.

‘There is nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself.’ He won’t look at you as he talks. ‘I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited!’

Your mind is still reeling. You still don’t know what to do. You ask Anders if that spirit – Justice – told him to do this; he says no. He tells you they are one now, that he – Anders – could no more ignore the injustice of the Circle than his antonymous spirit could.

‘…I might have understood, if you’d only told me,’ you eventually manage, with a heavy heart. But Anders remains resolute.

‘I wanted to tell you,’ he says. ‘But… what if you stopped me? Or worse, what if you wanted to help? I couldn’t let you do that.’

Anders pauses, surveying the bodies around him, then continues, and you wonder how is it he can remain so calm, so collected, while your own mind is a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. ‘The world needs to see this,’ he tells you. ‘Then we can all stop pretending the Circle is a solution.’

He pauses again, and takes a deep breath. ‘And if I pay for that with my life… then I pay. Perhaps then Justice would at least be free.’

 _The rebirth of Justice from Anders’s corpse_. Or perhaps Vengeance would be the spirit that arises upon the death of a man you called your friend, unleashed on the world by your doing. Anders might say he’s prepared for this… but are you?

But you know Anders. You’ve known him for seven years. You know why he felt he had to do this. Whether the spirit was behind this or not, you know he has a point: Meredith had already called for the Right of Annulment to be enforced on the Circle way before Anders asked you to help with that ‘potion’ of his.

Was it necessary? Was it a crime you should punish him for? Or was it justified? Everyone is looking expectantly at you for the final verdict; you swear you even feel the weight of history bearing down on your shoulders as you struggle desperately to balance the reasons for and against what you must do next.

Some will say you harboured a terrorist. Others will say you helped a freedom fighter. Two sides of the same coin, depending on which side you choose.

Will you grant him absolution? Or will you condemn him to death?


	21. XXI. The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright meaning:** Completion, integration, accomplishment, travel;  
>  **Reversed meaning:** Lack of completion, lack of closure.
> 
> Post-game. Hawke and Anders after the Chantry blows.

Travel was exhausting. Hawke already knew that from his long flight to Kirkwall all those years ago, when the darkspawn had forced them out of Lothering and Ferelden. It hadn’t been something he’d been planning on doing again. But with Kirkwall in fiery ruins, and Anders at his side, fleeing was something he _was_ doing all over again, whether he wanted to or not.

The last time they’d done this, though, at least the Hawkes had had a destination in mind. This time, however, they had no idea where to go. They could go anywhere and everywhere, run without looking back.

The world was their oyster, as some would say.

But where in this world would accept them, two fugitives on the run? Where in the world would take two apostates in need of safe shelter, one wanted for the explosion of the Chantry, the other his lover and confidant?

 _Nowhere, that’s where_ , came the answer in Hawke’s head.

He shot a concerned look at Anders, who had been largely withdrawn and quiet since they’d left Kirkwall. After so long on the run, he had become less tense and more thoughtful – though what about, Hawke had no idea.

Anders honestly hadn’t expected to live as long as this, and that fact alone broke Hawke’s heart. Anders had expected that razing the Chantry to the ground would be the completion of his story, and of Justice’s – with his accomplishment, with Kirkwall in civil war, with templars and mages in open hostilities against each other, he’d expected to die for what he’d done; he had been prepared to both detonate and be a martyr for his cause. Wanted it, even.

There was only one snag. Hawke hadn’t followed the script. He’d let Anders live.

 _Come with me. Help me defend the mages_.

The story therefore wasn’t finished, and with the lack of closure that Anders had so firmly expected – counted on, even – Anders seemed ever more lost, and ever more afraid.

‘Oh no,’ Hawke had said when Anders had protested, picking their way through the burning ruins of Kirkwall. ‘You don’t get to leave me like that, Anders. I made you a promise. And I keep my promises.’

Even after three years of being his lover, even living together, Hawke had been disappointed that Anders hadn’t understood. He’d believed in Anders’s cause as much as Anders had. He wasn’t going to execute him just because his title as the Champion of Kirkwall meant it was his responsibility to do so. Judging by what happened with Meredith (he really didn’t want to think of the absurdity of what Orsino had done) it had turned out to be the right decision.

Despite anything Anders had thought, despite everything Anders had warned, Hawke did not regret the integration of his life with the other man’s for one minute.

 _We will be fugitives together_.

Hawke had meant every word. And slowly – ever so slowly – Anders had begun to accept it. With Hawke still there with each day that passed, Hawke supposed he had to.

‘Love,’ Anders murmured, voice soft but still enough to startle Hawke out of his thoughts.

‘Anders,’ Hawke said, taking both his hands in his.

‘I know I’ve said this before, but – thank you. For still being by my side.’ Anders smiled, and it lit up both his face and Hawke’s. ‘I know this is hard. But with you here, believing in me, believing in the mages… I feel I can do this. I feel _we_ can do this. We will make Thedas better for all mages, everywhere.’

For the first time that day, Hawke felt hopeful. Happy. The future stretched out before them, no longer bleak and desolate and certain to end in death, but bright and full of hope and purpose, and Hawke was grateful that Anders reminded him, once again, what they were doing and why.

The path might be difficult and exhausting and filled with discomfort, but they would walk it together and change things for the better.

‘We will,’ Hawke promised him, squeezing his hands tenderly.

For the downtrodden and for mages, Anders would do anything: it was one of the things Hawke loved most about him. And for Anders, Hawke would change the world.


	22. XXII. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Upright meaning:** Beginnings, innocence, spontaneity, a free spirit;  
>  **Reversed meaning:** Naivety, foolishness, recklessness, risk-taking.
> 
>  
> 
> Before the beginning of Dragon Age 2 – before she captured and interrogated Varric on the whereabouts of the Champion – Cassandra Pentaghast interviewed someone else who said he had important information about Hawke. 
> 
> Someone who was there at the Battle of Kirkwall itself.
> 
> And that someone… was Emile de Launcet. It did not go well.

The tavern was small and dusty, and a welcome sight on the long, winding road to Kirkwall. They were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thick forest on all sides, and several days away from the next town.

But that wasn’t why Cassandra Pentaghast and her party were stopping here. This was a duty call.

The bartender merely shrugged at them as Cassandra walked in, flanked by armed guards, into the dim and dreary tavern; he looked just as drab and worn as his surroundings. Cassandra supposed that, with the war raging, such a sight wasn’t unusual or unexpected anymore. She looked round, taking in the few patrons nursing their drinks, and headed straight for the sign that read ‘PRIVATE ROOMS’ as the message had indicated. If her information was good, she would find what she was looking for behind the first door on the right.

The creaky wooden door opened to a sparsely furnished room, and sitting next to the fire was a young man with reddish-brown hair, balding like a monk’s tonsure despite his relative youth, wearing faded Kirkwall Circle robes. He wasn’t the most attractive man Cassandra had ever laid eyes on, but he stood up and smiled good-humouredly when she entered the room, although his slate grey eyes raked appreciatively over her body in a way that made Cassandra want to punch him.

‘I hear you are a Seeker?’ he greeted her. ‘Well, seek no more, my good lady; I am ze only man you’ll ever need!’

For someone who’d lived in Kirkwall so long, and had presumably been in the Circle there since childhood, the man had a surprisingly strong – and, to Cassandra’s ears, comically exaggerated – Orlesian accent. She took a step towards him.

‘You said you have information about the Champion of Kirkwall. What is your name?’

‘My name is de Launcet. Emile de Launcet. It comes from a part of Orlais famed for,’ he grinned inanely, ‘its… stout lances. Want to see mine?’

Cassandra remained unimpressed.

‘I ’ave ’eard many tales of your intelligence and – _striking_ beauty,’ Emile de Launcet continued, running his hands over a large imaginary hourglass as he looked her up and down, ‘but never did I ever imagine zat I might be tied up and – sorry, I mean interrogated by – someone _quite_ as…’

‘I did not realise the Champion kept such terrible company,’ Cassandra interrupted him at last.

Emile chuckled. ‘Well, perhaps after tonight,’ he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, as Cassandra tried not to vomit, ‘you will think differently, _non_?’

‘We shall see,’ said Cassandra through gritted teeth, ignoring the implied meaning of his words and desperately trying to hold onto the last vestiges of her patience. ‘That all depends on what you have to tell me.’

‘Ah, Seeker!’ Emile cried, spreading his hands in a welcoming gesture, completely oblivious to the threat now in the air. ‘Where is your spontaneity? Your sense of adventure, _non_? I thought zat travelling all over the land being a Seeker meant you had a free spirit… and tonight, you and I can be free spirits together!’

A blinding flash of light caught Emile off-guard and he sagged back in his chair, gaping in shock at Cassandra’s party, unable to determine who’d cast the Cleanse that disarmed him of his magic and drained him of his energy. Cassandra remained where she stood, visibly irate.

‘Stop wasting my time,’ Cassandra snapped, and Emile visibly quailed under the weight of her glare. ‘Either you have information on the Champion, or you don’t. I suggest you talk, before my guards further make you regret calling me here.’

Emile cast his eye over her armed guards, taking in their weapons and hard stares, and shivered. ‘OK, OK, I will,’ he replied hastily, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘I am sorry. Look, don’t… don’t hurt me, OK? I will tell you all I can.’

Cassandra folded her arms. ‘I am not interested in what – _else_ you have to offer,’ she said. ‘I am only interested what you have to say about the Champion. The one that caused the Battle of Kirkwall. Talk.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Emile said. ‘I ’eard so much in ze Circle about Hawke, Champion and ze most famous apostate in Kirkwall; but, to meet her in person…’

‘The Champion was a mage?’

‘Well, of course ze Champion was a mage! After all, she ma-gicked my breath away!’

Cassandra rolled her eyes.

‘Oh, buggery,’ Emile said hurriedly, as her annoyed-looking guards drew their weapons. ‘Look, it – it was a joke, OK? I –’

‘I am starting to think you didn’t know the Champion at all,’ Cassandra said, arms still folded. ‘I am starting to think you brought me here to waste my time with terrible chat-up lines and even more terrible attempts at seduction.’

Emile looked crushed.

‘A Kirkwall mage on the run, who says he was there at the Battle of Kirkwall itself, fighting alongside the Champion? Hmph,’ Cassandra snorted, and Emile cowered under her disdain. ‘I think this was all an elaborate ruse to lure me here under false pretences. I am trying to discover information that will help me stop this terrible war, and you are trying to waste my time. I do not like being played for a fool, especially _by_ a fool.’

‘No, no, no,’ Emile said hurriedly, ‘it is true! I did fight alongside ze Champion, we fought against ze Knight Commander, and –’

‘Bullshit!’

‘Well, _non_ , maybe I didn’t fight Meredith directly, but I definitely –’

‘You haven’t even _met_ the Champion, have you?’

‘I have met ze Champion. Well, my family knew ’er better zan I did, since I was in the Circle, but I _did_ meet ’er. She helped me escape.’

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. Emile stared back at her, wide-eyed, pleading, scared.

The boy (and in effect, he really _was_ a boy, thought Cassandra, even though he was probably in his mid- to late twenties) might be stupid and reckless, but Cassandra was starting to think that perhaps he wasn’t lying after all. Even though she was amazed that, mage or not, his naivety and innocence in the ways of the world – not to mention his obvious propensity to take foolish risks – hadn’t got him killed yet.

There probably wasn’t much useful information he could tell her – and certainly not as much as she’d hoped – but perhaps he could tell her a tiny bit, at least.

‘Fine,’ she eventually said. ‘Start from the beginning.’

Emile took a deep breath.

‘I first met ze Champion in ze Hanged Man. A tavern in Kirkwall. I ’ad escaped from ze Circle to… meet girls,’ Emile looked embarrassed, ‘and, er… _do_ things with girls zat I’d read about in ze Circle. I’d agreed to sleep with one of the tavern girls – I, er, lied and told her I was a blood mage because I thought it would make me sound dangerous and suave –’

Now Cassandra was aghast. ‘You did _WHAT_?!?!’

‘I’m not a blood mage, I swear!’ Emile panicked, his cheeks red with shame. ‘It was why Knight Commander Meredith sent Hawke after me, because I’d stupidly told Nella – ze tavern girl – because I thought it would impress her enough zat she would agree to lie with me!’

Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose, and turned to pace around the room, to pace away her exasperation and utter incredulity at how stupid Emile was (and again, how stunned she was that he’d survived the war this long). When she recovered, she paced back to him, maintaining her composure once more.

‘I’m going to regret this. Go on.’

‘Well, ze Champion persuaded me to go back to ze Circle. She allowed me to lie with Nella for ze night, and accompanied me back herself. She warned me of the dangers of spreading rumours about blood magic – she gave me quite a lecture, actually, it was not nice – and ze next time I saw her was when ze Chantry blew up and the war broke out. Ze Champion sided with us mages, so every mage in ze Circle was forced to fight. When she defeated Meredith, she and her companions and a number of us Circle mages escaped for good.’

‘So you initially escaped the Circle and spread rumours you were a blood mage so that you could sleep with a girl,’ Cassandra repeated, still reeling from the earlier revelation, ‘and the Champion had to drag you back or Meredith would have executed you.’

‘Well,’ replied Emile more cheerfully, ‘not quite drag – although I wouldn’t ’ave minded if she did, or if it was ze Champion who made me a man zat night, she was much better-looking zan Nella –’

‘I don’t want to hear about your sex life,’ Cassandra cut in, to Emile’s disappointment. ‘What can you tell me about Meredith?’

‘Ah, Meredith,’ and Emile sat back in his chair, a dreamy expression on his face. ‘Meredith was a _handsome_ woman! If only she wasn’t insane and trying to _kill_ me!’

Exasperated, Cassandra shook her head.

‘I am not going to get any useful information out of you,’ she said, finally. She nodded to her guards. ‘We’re done here.’

‘So… I can go?’ Emile asked. ‘You… will not harm me?’

Cassandra glared at him. ‘Yes. I will let you go,’ she said, and her guards, looking confused (and perhaps a little disappointed), sheathed their weapons.

Emile stood up. ‘Thank you,’ he said fervently, until a cheeky look came into his eye. ‘Perhaps we could share a little kiss to say thanks, _non_?’

‘Do not push your luck,’ Cassandra retorted, scowling. ‘Get out, before I change my mind.’

Nodding, terrified, and still drained of his mana, Emile swiftly left the room, the guards parting to let him exit. Cassandra released a huge sigh of relief, and collapsed weakly into the chair he’d recently vacated.

Nobody ever told her interrogations would be this draining. And she was still no closer to finding the Champion of Kirkwall after all. She hoped the person she had originally intended to question – in Kirkwall itself, before she got sidetracked on the way there by this silly son of an Orlesian nobleman – was more forthcoming, and not another red herring.

Perhaps she should be tougher in her interrogation next time. She could not afford another stupid waste of time.

From the corner of her eye, Cassandra could see something move; years of Seeking together told her it could only be Sister Nightingale, unrecognisable to anyone except those who knew her as well as Cassandra did. ‘Well?’ asked Leliana as she emerged quietly from the shadows.

Cassandra only shook her head. ‘That foolish boy,’ she murmured under her breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... we're done! Yay! Thank you so much to everyone who has followed and commented! 
> 
> Quick note on The Fool: it is usually the first card in the major arcana of the Tarot deck (card number 0) but it can also be the last one (card number 22). It represents, among other things, beginnings, but I thought it fitted in best here - I knew what I wanted to write for this particular prompt waaaaaay before I actually wrote it :-) It hasn't quite come out as funny as it did in my head, but nevermind - I only hope I did it justice. It brings us quite nicely back to the beginning of DA2, at any rate.
> 
> Sorry it's taken so, so, _so_ long to update - I was supposed to finish this series about 2½ months ago, which then turned into one month ago, which then turned into "hopefully I can post the last one up before July starts"... but anyway, it's finished now. Hooray! I've really appreciated all your kudos and feedback, and again thanks so much for taking the time to read my little stories!


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